


Flip Side B: Another Hamilton Mixtape

by scarlett_the_seachild



Series: the less i know series aka john laurens is a dj [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Activism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxiety, Depression, Humour, Internalized Homophobia, Love, Mixtape, Multi, Music, Police Brutality, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racial/Cultural Insecurity, Racism, Recreational Drug Use, Underage Drinking, all that good stuff, and porn, exploring race and sexuality, friendships, i feel like the tone has changed from the first story but this is very much still a comedy, just college kids doing college things, kind of like the angstier second season
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 11:31:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 108,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14592096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlett_the_seachild/pseuds/scarlett_the_seachild
Summary: A new term brings new challenges as Hamilton attempts to navigate the ship of his fledgling relationship against the tides of racial tension, insecurity and parental disapproval. Featuring fresh tracks from your boys Mulligan, Lafayette and Laurens the DJ - who is just fine, or would be if everyone would stop asking.but you know what, hey. Everything's gonna be alright. we've got the music, after all.





	1. In These Fine Times – Classixx

**Author's Note:**

> so guess whose exams ended JUST AS the new season of Dear White People came out. 
> 
> This story is the sequel to The Less I Know (or side A.) not super necessary to read i don't think, unless you want equally cringey pop culture references and the details of how Laurens and Hamilton got together. I couldn't decide whether i wanted to do a prequel so what i'm gonna do is split up some of the later chapters into sort of flash-backy episodes from when before the first story begins. Let me know the second it gets confusing.
> 
> Starts a month after TLIK finishes. context for new people: Laurens was subject to heavy handed police response at a protest Hamilton &crew organised. Hamilton is hankering for vengeance, but is tied down with trying to get a white supremacist kicked off campus. in short: racism exists and things are bad.

_“GET BACK!”_

_“I_ _am_ _back. What the hell is your problem?”_

_“I’M WARNING YOU TO CALM DOWN.”_

_“I am fucking calm!”_

There had been a moment – there must have been, theoretically – within the chaos, a space between the panicked shout and his face being smashed into the concrete. In the daylight Laurens had flashes of a head snapping back, disembodied from his own but for the pain in his neck, still, right now there seemed to be no pause, no separation at all between the screams of the crowd and his spitting out blood and gravel.

He was sitting up before he even realised he was awake. An instinct from the dream – push up with your hands, get yourself off the floor. It’d been impossible on account of the bodies holding him down, crushing his lungs flat against his ribcage until he felt a thin crack, like the bending of a wishbone. Now though, it was easy.

It took him a few seconds to appreciate he was alone. His chest felt tight. Despite being able to sit up, it was still as if his back had been made mattress to a small rhino. Laurens rubbed his face with his hands, forced himself off the edge of the bed and made his way slowly towards the bathroom.

He clicked on the light, blinking in the sudden harshness and grimacing at his reflection in the mirror. His face was thinner than it had been a month ago, the hollows of his cheeks casting shadows at sharp angles and emphasising the bruises under his eyes. He splashed some water on himself and gripped the sides of the sink, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal.

Outside the moon and streetlamps tripped from beneath the blinds onto the window ledge, casting the room into a muted bluish dim. He glanced out the window onto the car park, remembering where he was. In the distance, sirens wailed in chase. Nothing personal, just the sound of the city. Laurens didn’t love it but then he never had, finding it lonely and claustrophobic all at once. For the first time in a long while, he found himself wishing for the fresh air and countryside of home.

He put his head under the tap, drank a few gulps of water before returning to the bed. Laying on his back he stared up at the ceiling with his hands clasped on his stomach, ignoring the fact that they were still shaking. He could hear the sink pipes gurgling, the hum of feedback from his speakers which had a habit of switching on by themselves against the rumbling of Ben’s snores in the other room. He tried to tune into it, blocking out the pandemonium in his head by focusing on the background noise but the sirens cut above it, his room in the bluish-dark a little too much like the walls of a cell and in the end he reached for his phone, scrolling through his Insta feed to take his mind off it.

The time read 4.30am. Fifteen hours ago, Lafayette had been at the Met with Adrienne, and his timeline was mostly clogged with pictures of them posing together next to various pieces. The nicest one was of Adrienne, head turned in mid-snap, caught on the edges of embarrassment. The caption read “Admiring the artwork”. It was as cute as it was corny and Laurens liked it before scrolling down.

The next one was of Alexander, photo creds claimed by Angelica. He was sitting cross legged on the quad, grinning up from his laptop laying across his knees. His papers lay in a chaotic cluster around him, but for once he didn’t appear stressed. The sun hit his face at just the right angle to stop him from looking washed-out, and the bags he’d been cultivating under his eyes for the past month were barely noticeable. Laurens liked it and then went over to Alex’s private account, brushing impatiently through the screenshots of various trolls he’d destroyed on twitter before finding the picture he was looking for.

It was a ridiculous yacht, so enormous it made the hotel behind it look like a beach cabana. The name on its side had been cropped out; photoshopped badly in its place, the pixels leaping out of the screen were the words _La Bella Laurelia._ A grudging smile nudged Laurens’ face as he scrolled through the comments, sheepish pleasure mixing with embarrassment as he re-read their friends’ excited congratulations. Alexander’s smugness was apparent in his responses, and Laurens felt his grin broaden with amused exasperation at yet another sunglasses emoji.

Laurens stared at the username for a long time, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. He glanced back at the time, now reading 4.37. The odds that Hamilton was awake were not unlikely, still he had been sleeping longer now that exams were approaching. Not wanting to call him in case he was asleep, Laurens switched to messenger.

_JL: u up?_

His thumb hovered over the button after he sent it, heart increasing in speed again with a different kind of anxiety. Almost a month together with Hamilton, and it still had done little to slow its pace whenever he existed so much as a potential.

A second before Laurens was about to put his phone face down on the table, the screen lit up.

_AH: I am now_

_U ok?_

Laurens cursed guiltily, fingers still shaking as he typed out a response.

_JL: sorry didnt mean 2 wake u_

_AH: Nah its ok. my own fault, I never mute it_

_light sleeper anyway_

_Whats up?_

Laurens huffed out a breath, running his hand through his hair as he deliberated how much to say.

_JL: bad dream_

He switched back to Insta while he waited for Hamilton’s reply, and was surprised when seconds later the screen darkened, showing Hamilton was calling him. Laurens fumbled with the answer button, angry and embarrassed with himself as he raised it to his ear.

“You had a nightmare?” Hamilton’s voice was sharp, cutting through its obvious tiredness.

Laurens rubbed at the skin between his brows, sighing. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Not a big deal.”

“You’re talking to an expert here,” Hamilton reminded him. “I know how much they can suck.”

That was true. But Hamilton didn’t talk about his dreams. He just tossed impatiently throughout the night, frowning as if at something intensely annoying until Laurens woke him up, or he jerked upright by himself. At which point he’d mumble “bad dream” without looking at him, and read on his phone or laptop until Laurens had dropped back to sleep.

“Was it the protest?” Hamilton asked quietly when several moments had passed without him saying anything.

Laurens made a non-committal, grunting sound. Hamilton sighed heavily; Laurens heard the rustle of covers as he pushed himself up in bed.

“It would be weird if it didn’t still bother you,” Hamilton said. “It’s only been a month. That’s not a long time to recover from a near-death experience.”

“I wasn’t…it wasn’t,” Laurens argued, frustrated. “I wasn’t even hurt. Not like other people were. Not like Jamal was.”

“You don’t have to compare yourself to other people to make what happened to you not okay.”

“I know it wasn’t okay,” Laurens replied curtly. “I’m just saying.”

Hamilton didn’t say anything. Laurens exhaled heavily, lifted his eyes again to the ceiling as if it could help him through this conversation.

“I saw your insta post,” he changed the subject. “The one Angelica took.”

Hamilton snorted scornfully. “She made me gram it,” he replied. “Wanted to take it down but it was already getting likes. My hair’s a tragedy, I’m not gonna look normal again until way after exams.”

“I think it’s nice,” Laurens told him truthfully. “Lighting’s good. And your teeth.”

“Thanks,” said Hamilton, pleased. Laurens imagined him grinning. He ran his tongue over his own, trying to rid himself of the taste of copper. “You should really get more on it with your social media presence, y’know. If you’re gonna take this music stuff seriously.”

It was Laurens’ turn to grin. “I’m big on SoundCloud.”

“Ugh. I know.” He knew Hamilton rolled his eyes and was delighted. “I’m forced to live every day with that knowledge. When I meet new people and they ask about you, the first thing I have to suppress myself from saying is _‘my boyfriend’s big on SoundCloud’.”_

“Are you embarrassed of me, Hamilton?”

 _“Yes,”_ replied Hamilton, with feeling. “I said ‘za’ the other day. Completely accidentally. It just fell out, I was too mortified to clarify to Washington I meant ‘pizza’.”

“Shortening words is post-modern, and reformist.”

“What, like newspeak?” Hamilton challenged him before tutting impatiently. “Man, look what you’ve done, John. It’s a stupid hour to be referencing Orwell.”

Guilt squirmed in Laurens’ stomach again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, I’m kidding.” There was another rustle of covers as Hamilton moved to lie further down the mattress, stretching out his legs and sighing a little with contentment. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Laurens chewed his lip, thinking about Hamilton’s screams as his jaw hit the sidewalk. “No.”

“Okaaay,” Hamilton spoke slowly, drawing out the syllables. A pause. “Do you want to have phone sex?”

Laurens drew a breath in sharply. He hadn’t entirely gotten used to Hamilton’s bluntness about stuff that still, if he was being honest, scared him a bit. But the longer he imagined Hamilton, laying atop his bed with his fingers resting casually beneath the waistband of his boxers, the more the guilt in his stomach gave way to desire. “Sure.”

“Cool,” said Hamilton. “I can guess what you’re wearing. Basketball jersey and shorts.”

Laurens smiled. “Wrong on both counts.” Hamilton had stolen all his basketball jerseys. “I’m wearing sweatpants.”

“Damn,” Hamilton swore. “That’s hot, though. Your upper body is really something.”

“You’re implying my lower body disappoints?”

“Obviously not, John. It’s all very good. But I like thinking about your torso,” more rustling as Laurens imagined Hamilton sinking deeper into the pillows. “And your upper back,” he added. “And your shoulders.”

Laurens tried hard not to feel too pleased with himself. “Thanks. I try.”

“I know you do,” Hamilton purred. “It shows.”

“What are you wearing?” Laurens asked quickly, before he got too affected by the compliments.

“Cobra Pest Control t-shirt.”

Laurens snorted. “Sexy.”

“They were giving them out at this catering gig,” Hamilton replied. Laurens heard the stifled yawn. “Not about to turn down free.”

“Fair enough.” Laurens had slid his hand beneath his sweatpants and was stroking himself slowly, concentrating on Hamilton’s voice on the other line and not the sirens outside his window. “Keep talking.”

“Are you touching yourself?”

“Yeah. Keep talking.”

“Okay,” a pause as Hamilton thought what to say. “It’s unfair that I have to be the talk-y one. I’d much rather relax and think about what you look like right now.”

Laurens’ breath caught in his throat, the hand on his cock stuttering. “Do both.”

“Oh I am, don’t worry,” he heard Hamilton curse softly, followed by the snap of elastic as he slid his hand into his own boxers. “Mm. Ha. Just thinking about you topless and I’m already half-hard.”

Laurens closed his eyes, cock hardening as he imagined Hamilton biting his lip and rocking into his hand. “Maybe we should have facetimed.”

“It doesn’t matter. I can see you,” Hamilton’s voice was slightly breathy, he gasped and Laurens imagined running his thumb over his head. “Your…head’s fallen back, and you’re arching slightly.”

He was. Laurens blushed, teasing his slit as he fumbled to keep the phone steady. “Ha. I actually am.”

“See?” said Hamilton, and Laurens heard the smirk in his voice. “I replay you so often in my head, I practically know you by heart.”

Laurens thought about Hamilton, straining and uncomfortable in his jeans as he worked at his desk. Imagined him palming himself over the material of his boxers, unable to sit still with distraction. He groaned lowly. “God,” he muttered. “You’re so…”

“I’m so?”

Laurens couldn’t think of the word he wanted so he pumped his cock faster. Outside the city’s wailing grew louder, followed by voices raised in argument. Laurens shut them out, focusing only on Hamilton in his ear and the increased pace of his hand. He arched further, thinking about Hamilton’s mouth sucking at his throat and letting out a moan.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Hamilton hummed encouragingly, voice soft and drowsy. “That’s it John…”

“Alexander,” the name escaped from his lips, barely a murmur as Laurens rocked his hips.

“John,” said Hamilton, and gasped.

At the sound Laurens lurched forward. He scrabbled for a t-shirt, grabbing one off the side of his bed as he came. He wiped himself off, breathing heavily and taking a second to steady his pulse before speaking into the receiver. “Alex?”

“I’m here,” Hamilton replied softly, reassuringly. “I uh…I made a mess.”

Laurens cracked a smile, wishing he could brush his hands through Hamilton’s hair. Kiss him slowly, deeply. “You _are_ a mess.”

“Takes one to know one,” Hamilton replied, but it lacked its usual sparring edge. “Did that help?”

The grin slid off Laurens’ face as memories of the dream returned, the glow of his orgasm already starting to dampen round the edges. “Help what,” he said, unsure whether it was a joke or not.

There was no reply. Only the soft rise and fall of Hamilton’s breathing, steady and whistling slightly on the exhale. He’d fallen asleep.  

Laurens swore, chucking the dirty t-shirt onto the rapidly growing laundry pile. He lay back down, thankful at least he had stopped shaking. The fear and nausea was gone, leaving only loneliness and shame in its wake, the room cold and empty without Hamilton’s presence on the other end. He reached for his headphones, yanking them on and turning up the volume before closing his eyes, preparing himself for the long wait until he fell back to sleep.

*

“Hey,” said Hamilton the next morning, tilting his paper cup of coffee at Lafayette in greeting.

“Hey yourself,” Lafayette answered, not looking up from his phone. “Adrienne sends love.”

“Aww. Did she get the plane ok?”

“Yes. There was some mix-up with her luggage, and she had to wait for a few hours on the other side. But it is all taken care of.”

“Good,” said Hamilton, really meaning it and not just being polite. “I like her. Did she have a good time?”

“Yes!” replied Lafayette, eyes brightening excitedly. “She particularly enjoyed the Met. No surprises there, although she _did_ say she might like it more than the Louvre which,” he wrinkled his nose sceptically. “Is within her rights, I suppose.”

Hamilton nodded. “The Met’s cool,” he said, not adding that he couldn’t compare it to the Louvre, having turned down Lafayette’s offer to accompany him to Paris over break. “You should take her to the Frick collection next time.”

“Yes, I wish she could have stayed for longer,” Lafayette agreed mournfully. “But we agreed we would split the break in half so that she could come back with me.”

“Sounds sensible. What did André do?”

“He went on to Zurich. I think he is still there.”

“Do you know when he’s back? I could use his help with some writing stuff.”

Lafayette shook his head. “You are better off asking Laurens. They are in contact more than I.” He peered up into Hamilton’s face, examining it suspiciously. There were shadows clinging to the corners of his eyes, possibly cast by the increased heaviness of the lids. “You look tired,” he observed. “Did you pull another all-nighter at the library?”

Hamilton shook his head, sliding into the spare chair in the common room. “John and I had a late call.”

Lafayette grimaced, batting his hands reproachfully. “If I want the details of your sex lives I will ask for them.”

“I’m sure you will. But no. He had a nightmare.”

At once Lafayette’s resentful expression cleared to be replaced by one of concern. Catching sight of it, Hamilton waved facetiously. “I mean, there was some stuff too. But that was more in response to the whole…nightmare. Situation.”

“What was it of?”

“Uh,” Hamilton hesitated, unsure how Laurens would feel if he divulged his vulnerabilities. That wasn’t true. He knew exactly how he’d feel. He decided to tell Lafayette anyway. “The protest, I think.”

Lafayette’s face sagged. Hamilton took a sip of his coffee, face warming more at the memory than from the heat.

“Well it has only been a month,” Lafayette settled on finally.

“Yeah, that’s what I told him,” Hamilton nodded. “I don’t know. He seems ok, though.”

Lafayette frowned. “Do the dreams happen often?”

Hamilton shrugged. Lafayette stared at him. “What exactly do you talk about?” he demanded.

“Oh my God,” Hamilton huffed, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. “Other stuff, okay? Jesus. Not everyone can be Mr Emotionally Liberated. Maybe get off my dick, for a sec?”

“I don’t remember ever getting on it,” said Lafayette stiffly, who disliked many of Hamilton’s favoured euphemisms.

“Because I actually have enough to deal with without you judging my Boyfriend Performance,” he continued bitterly. “I’m having a hard enough time trying to get a perfect score for this term as it is. We’re both new at this so maybe quit with all the ‘wax on wax off stuff’ and let us figure it out.”

He took another sip of coffee, grimacing at the taste. “God, this is garbage,” he commented, pulling a face. “I knew they’d switched to the cheaper stuff, what a cowardly way to cut costs. Do you want this brought up in your domain or mine?”

“My domain is a university court that carries out limited judicial functions and peer review of mostly discriminatory and anti-social cases,” Lafayette replied, parroting off the script Washington had sent him. “And it doesn’t exist yet.”

“Right, right,” Hamilton waved his hand in response to Lafayette’s meaningful look. “I’m working on it. God. Can’t wait for exams to be over so I can finally concentrate on real stuff. You know I haven’t spoken to the Curtises since term began?”

“I am sure they understand,” said Lafayette.

“Yeah, probably. But I still feel shitty. Plus Drayton’s suspension ends soon so we’ll have to deal with his smug face all over campus.” He yawned widely, barely covering his mouth with his hand. “Ugh. The sooner he’s expelled for good the easier I’ll sleep.”

“When is the trial?”

“Three weeks, so it needs to be before then. After that there isn’t really much we can do, apart from demonstrate outside the court.” He broke off uncomfortably. Lafayette knew what he was thinking.

“You haven’t told John that part of the plan,” he stated.

Hamilton gave an unconvincing shrug. “Should I?”

“He will likely guess that is what you intend. It’s up to him whether he wants to come or not.”

“Except that it’s John,” Hamilton rolled his eyes. “So he’ll obviously feel like he has to, or whatever. I don’t want him to force himself through something that’s gonna stress him out.”

“Good luck keeping it from him.”

“Yeah,” Hamilton huffed, looking distractedly into the distance. “Yeah.”

He finished his coffee in pensive silence. Meanwhile Lafayette checked his messages, looking for anything from Laurens that suggested he was doing less than perfectly. There was nothing but a few texts about a set he was doing at some sketchy looking ska club. Lafayette had told him not to pick fights with any skinheads, and Laurens had responded with a thumbs up. He hoped he was getting at least a little more out his conversations with Hamilton.

“Greetings in the name of the Most High,” came a cheerful voice; Hamilton and Lafayette looked up to see Mulligan coming towards them. “How are we on this fine day of the new term?”

“Can’t complain,” Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “Whose got _your_ panties on?”

“Do you actually know that these aren’t real expressions? Or do you just like making people uncomfortable?”

“Bit of both,” replied Hamilton, leaning back in his chair so that his shirt rucked up, revealing a boxer waistband that was far too expensive to be his.

If Mulligan noticed he didn’t say anything, merely sparing Hamilton a contemptuous look before addressing Lafayette. “Beth just got contacted by Dem-gal,” he explained. “They’re doing a late night event at the Moma and asked her if she knew any rising black designers for their fashion exhibit. And guess whose portfolio they just accepted.”

“If it’s not you, then this is a really boring story,” Hamilton yawned again.

Ignoring him, Lafayette turned to Mulligan. “But you are not…one of ‘dem gals’.”

“They’re opening it up to dudes this time round,” Mulligan explained. “In the interests of breaking gender boundaries.”

“Right, because there are so few men in positions of authority over women’s fashion these days,” said Hamilton sarcastically.

Mulligan frowned at him quizzically. “Who hurt you this morning?”

“Sorry,” Hamilton cringed, suddenly aware he was being dick. “Didn’t get a lot of sleep.”

“If I wanted to hear about your sex life, I’d ask.”

“Ok sorry,” said Hamilton suddenly. “But the fact that you guys keep automatically assuming I’m talking about sex says way more about your imaginations than mine.”

“So Laurens will be in a better mood?” Mulligan persisted. “Because Beth said Dem-gal are looking for DJs as well. Although to be fair she probably told him herself. I swear he sees more of her than I do these days.”

“It’s nice,” Lafayette said idly, resuming his texting. “That Laurens is doing something he enjoys, with other people who enjoy the same thing. It’s nice.”

 “Yeah, people who won’t give him crap for it,” Hamilton nodded appreciatively. “Makes me feel less bad about all the SoundCloud jokes. He’s working on a new playlist, by the way. Something to go with some edgy, avant-garde art piece he started over break.”

The casualness of the words didn’t quite hide the pride lurking beneath them. Lafayette and Mulligan exchanged adoring glasses. “‘My boyfriend is so cute and talented,’” said Mulligan, in a jarring, faux-nasal impression, flipping imaginary hair.  

“Shut up,” Hamilton muttered, heat creeping into his cheeks. “You know what, if you guys are gonna do this I’m gonna head to the library.”

“Oh before I forget,” Mulligan snapped his fingers, indicating he had already forgotten a long time ago and only just remembered. “Aaron’s looking for you.”

Hamilton frowned. “Why?” he asked curiously.

Mulligan shrugged. “Beats me. He said he’d already sent you like, fifty texts and you hadn’t replied.”

Hamilton pulled out his phone. “Huh,” he said, scrolling through his messages and knowing that he might well have done. He had everyone on mute during exam period, except for Laurens and Eliza. “Guess I’ll go see what he wants. Congrats, Herc. Catch you guys on the side-flip.”

“Flip-side,” Lafayette called angrily after him as he left the common room.


	2. Macho - Jaako Eino Kalevi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> des machos ringards, des machos clichés, des macho men.

“Aaron Burr, _Monseigneur_!” Alexander greeted cheerfully, sweeping into the library café just as Burr was walking away from the counter. “Ça va?”

“Well, thank you,” said Burr, a little stiffly and throwing an anxious look around the café, as if concerned about people seeing them together. “You didn’t go with ‘sir’. New term new you?”

 “Thought I’d switch it up a bit,” Hamilton explained. “Don’t want people to think I’m getting predictable. As with you I see,” he added, gesturing at the sandwich Burr had just bought. “Tuna mayo. I’ve always thought of you as a ham and cheese man.”

“Thought I’d switch it up a bit,” Burr parroted boredly. He flicked his finger at the counter. “Do you want anything?”

Hamilton shook his head. “Nah thanks. I already ate today.”

“You know you’re supposed to do that more than once.”

Hamilton shrugged.

They found a table in the back corner, a safe distance away from the cluster of people swarming around the much more comfortable seating. Once sat down Hamilton immediately started jiggling his leg, until Burr looked at him sharply. At which point he stopped, looking sheepish.

“Sorry,” he said, taking a self-conscious sip of his garbage coffee instead.

Burr waved dismissively. “How was your break?” he asked, carefully peeling open his sandwich as though it were a soft tangerine.

Hamilton shrugged again. “Not super fantastic,” he replied. “I mean, Christmas was nice, spent that with the Schuylers. And John managed to get out of spending more than he had to at home so he was around for most of it. But all the fallout from the protest and the article and the…you know. Him getting arrested…thing…kind of put a dampener on the merriment.”

“Understandably,” Burr inclined his head. He paused. “How is John?”

Hamilton made an ambiguous gesture. “Okay I think,” he replied. “Again, not super fantastic. But like…who’s gonna be, considering. I feel like maybe his dad was a bit of a dick to him over the holiday, he pretty much ran out the airport. But uh…yeah. He seems ok.”

Burr nodded. “And how’s…everything else? With John?”

Hamilton put down his coffee with a wince. “Don’t do that.”

“What?” Burr blinked innocently.

“Pretend like you care about my romantical engagements.”

“I _care,”_ said Burr, uncomfortable and entirely unconvincingly. “I like Laurens.”

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “Ok man,” he said but dropped it, deciding to put Burr out of the misery of having to make small talk. “What did you wanna talk about, anyway? Or were you really just looking to catch up?”

“No,” Burr admitted, eyes flickering briefly around the room before leaning in slightly. “There’s been…a development. With our operation.”

Hamilton snorted. “I know what you’re talking about, dude. You don’t have to get all Ben Tallmadge on me.” The other day he had referred to the group arranging Meade’s birthday present as a task force. “So what’s up? Have you found a way to leak the emails yet?”

“That’s the problem,” Burr replied quietly. “I’m not sure that I can.”

Hamilton’s expression was so indignant he almost looked offended. “Are you serious?” he demanded. “You’re supposed to be a computer guy. I was getting access to Washington’s emails within the first week of working for him. Don’t look at me like that, it’s a skill you’ve gotta learn when your boss is as bad at admin as he is. Even if JP Morgan has got some kinda super complex Federal gov-style system, surely it wouldn’t be too much to do some simple sleuthing and figure out his password.”

“Obviously I can get into the system,” Burr rolled his eyes. “His password is Ulysses.”

Hamilton blinked, taken aback, but recovered quick enough to grimace. “Like the Romanised Greek hero or like Ulysses S Grant? Doesn’t matter, they’re both bad. Ok then, Snowdon. What’s the problem?”

“Some of the emails implicate more people than just Prevost,” Burr replied, choosing the words very carefully. “He’s been taking money for a lot of causes, some of them good. Most of it is fairly innocuous stuff, like funding for the Language Research centre and other various projects. But more than some of it crosses the line of ethicality. I don’t want to go into detail, but your friend Schuyler came up once or twice. Washington too. I haven’t found evidence of anything that’s actually illegal, yet, but even so. If these were released we could damage a lot of careers and undo a lot of good work, even if it’s been brought about by dubious means.”

“Not to mention the number of enemies we’d make,” Hamilton observed aloud, voicing what he thought the more likely motivation behind Burr’s sudden compassion. “I hear you. Alright, so what’s the plan? Don’t tell me you want to leave him alone.”

“Of course not,” Burr answered. “But we might need to come at this from a different angle. I’ll do some more digging, see if I can find anything that smears Prevost without incriminating more people than we have to.”

Hamilton nodded, reluctantly admitting the logic sounded sensible. “And I guess in the meantime you can enjoy the rewards of your cushy new job,” he said sarcastically. “How convenient.”

“You know that’s not why I’m doing this,” Burr said sharply.

“I do,” Hamilton conceded. He raised his coffee to his lips, drinking innocuously before casually throwing out, “See much of Professor Bartow over break?”

Burr’s eyes narrowed. “Hamilton.”

“What, so you can pretend to care about my love life but I can’t show some genuine, friendly interest in yours?”

“I already told you, I’m not discussing this with you.”

“Come on, Aaron. I know it sounds like fake news, well, it did to me at least, but turns out talking about this kinda stuff with someone else can actually help. Look at me and Laurens. We talked about our feelings and now look at us. Doing it. _On the. Daily.”_

“You don’t even know if he fell out with his father over break,” Burr pointed out reasonably.

Hamilton opened his mouth to retort, closing it when he realised he didn’t actually have a response to this. “Touché,” he admitted. “Different stuff, though. Plus it’s early days, I don’t wanna spoil it by bringing up shit he wants to leave alone. Also, what the hell. Fallacy by misdirection _again,_ Burr. You know you’re gonna have to watch that when you’re my assistant Counsel.”

“Co-Counsel,” Burr said instantly, smiling slightly at the old joke. “Sit down. Anyway, kids in glass houses.”

“It’s ‘people in glass houses’,” Hamilton corrected him. “Unless you’re talking about the band. Which…why would you be, they broke up in 2014 and you never had an emo phase.”

“You have no way of knowing that for sure.”

“Again, true,” Hamilton acknowledged. “And if your computer skills are as good as you make them out to be I guess I never will.” He finished his coffee with a last grimace. “Anything else? I gotta head to the lib before all the good seats are gone in the Yiddish section.”

“One more thing,” said Burr, getting out his phone and typing something on it. “Have you seen this?”

He passed his phone to Alexander who peered at the screen. It was a blog post, the top of which read “the Jefferson Bible”, followed by the header: “Alexander Hamilton: Racist or the New White Saviour?”

“Thomas’ new tactic in getting Drayton to stay,” he explained, sounding exasperated. “It mostly revolves around trying to get _you_ to leave.”

“Yeah, what else is new,” Hamilton grumbled, skimming the post quickly. “Oh, hey, this is. Huh. Did you know that in this new post-racial America mixed people don’t count as black? And that middle-class light-skinned activists who go to good schools are ‘ _hypocrites who exploit their economic and social privilege out of a desperate attempt to identify with a community to whom they don’t belong’.”_

“Have you got to the part where he compares you to Rachel Dolezal,” asked Burr.

“Just found it,” Hamilton replied casually. “Oh, and now he’s just calling me a racist. Aaaaand he’s just brought up Yakubian genetics, ok pardon the obvious joke here but I don’t think _that_ was by any means necessary.”

“Look at the number of hits,” Burr pointed out. “It’s enough to force the school into allowing him to start a print edition. Which he has now done.”

“Of the _Jefferson Bible?”_ Hamilton smirked, passing Burr back his phone. “Please. His only disciple’s Madison, and if I ever met a guy who swung so quickly between Peter and Judas-”

“-Yes, we all know, Madison betrayed you and hurt your feelings,” Burr huffed impatiently. “You know, if you didn’t implicitly compare yourself to Jesus every five minutes, it might give Jefferson’s claims about your messiah complex less credit.”

“Credit?” Hamilton scoffed. “Are you serious? He literally called me a _white saviour._ No one’s gonna take that bullshit seriously. In fact, he’s done me a favour in a way. I don’t think I’ve ever read anything easier to respond to.” He stood up, shouldering his bag. “Thanks for the heads up. I’ll work out the best way to destroy him when I’m done revising.”

“Be careful Alexander,” Burr said warningly as he prepared to leave. “You might find this is a battle that _isn’t_ already won.”

Hamilton didn’t bother to reply, waving an impatient goodbye as he headed for the library.

*

“That’s really beautiful.”

Surprised, Laurens looked up from the drawing of Lafayette he was colouring to see Eliza standing behind him.

“Thanks,” he replied, reaching for the paint. “He’s pretty easy to draw.”

Eliza hummed agreeably. “Some people are more than others,” she said. “How many are you doing?”

“A lot,” Laurens replied, moving supplies out the way to show her the rough sketches he’d done for Tallmadge, Mulligan, Hamilton and Meade as well as a few self-portraits. “I’d like to do André as well, but I don’t know if I want to make it a black thing. He works well for the ‘macho’ part, and he likes posing.”

“Are you going to do mixed media or traditional?”

“Mixed. There’s gonna be some photography, and like, sound clips. I want people to walk through it chronologically. Like a timeline. I’m not really sure what I want it to look like yet, but I know how I want it to feel.”

Eliza nodded, picking up one of the sketches for a closer look. It was the drawing of Alexander, and Laurens felt his breath stick in his throat as she examined it. “You’ve really captured him,” she commented, smiling softly. “The eyes.”

“Yeah,” said Laurens awkwardly. “He has those.”

Eliza put the drawing down and Laurens’ breathing came a little easier. He had never been entirely comfortable around Eliza, even before he found out that she’d went out with Hamilton. There was something about her complete absence of rancour and unequivocal sincerity that always made him feel a little ashamed of himself. It also never quite left his mind that she had been the one to dump Alex, and not the other way around.

“What are you doing?” he asked her by way of changing the subject.

“I’m not quite sure yet,” she replied, opening her sketchbook and showing it to him. “I had an idea to do some scenes from the Bible reinterpreted to modern day. So like, teenage immigrant Mary having to give birth in a bus shelter. Judith cutting off the head of a pimp, or a rapist. But I don’t know…it might be a bit much. And I don’t want people to think of me as the crazy-intense religious girl.”

“So what if they do?” asked Laurens. “That’s the whole point of this, isn’t it? To do something you’re interested in, that you care about. These are really cool,” he added, turning the pages of the sketchbook and lingering for a little too long on a drawing of the young David. “What medium are you thinking?”

“Don’t know,” replied Eliza. “I was thinking oil paints, but then I had the idea of doing like a stained-glass triptych?”

The uncertainty in her voice prompted Laurens to nod vigorously. “Definitely do that,” he told her. “Just because I would absolutely fucking love to see it.”

Eliza laughed. “I don’t know if I have the confidence or the skill,” she confessed. “It could end up looking really bad.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Laurens insisted. “I want it in my life, and now I must have it.”

“And here ‘it’ is,” Hamilton’s voice came from the stairs as he descended into the art room.

Both Laurens and Eliza rolled their eyes at the same time, caught each other doing it, and grinned. Hamilton swaggered up to Laurens, wrapping his arms around his waist and planting a kiss into the crook between neck and shoulder. Laurens flushed red, feeling weird about the affection in front of Eliza, and turned away while Hamilton kissed her cheek.

“How was the library?” Laurens asked him when he’d straightened up. “Did you get much done?”

“Ugh. I started to,” Hamilton replied, shucking off his coat and jumping up to sit on the counter. “But then I got distracted by Jefferson’s latest cry for help. Have you read this shit?”

“Yeah,” Laurens winced. “I was gonna tell you, but I didn’t wanna stress you out when you were studying.”

Hamilton smiled at him. “You’re cute,” he said, patting him on the arm. “Thanks. But Burr told me anyway. I swear man, as soon as I get my hands on a keyboard.”

“He should be reported to admin,” Eliza said angrily. “What he’s doing isn’t just contrarian. It’s bullying.”

“Admin already knows,” Hamilton told her. “And they’re giving him a publication. Obviously he can’t target me specifically in a school paper but doesn’t matter, the blog can do that. Meanwhile, he can keep spouting his anarcho-libertarian, devil’s advocate bullshit under Captain America’s protective shield of independent journalism.”

He sighed, rubbing the sides of his temples with his fingertips. He seemed tired rather than upset, still, Laurens looked at him concernedly.

“Are you okay?” he checked in. “Some of that bullshit was…pretty poisonous.”

“What?” asked Hamilton, head snapping up as if surprised by the question. “Yeah, of course. I’m fine, lol. I just need a keyboard.”

He sighed again, stretching his arms behind his head and nearly knocking a blow torch off the shelf above him.

“I know that was great timing for a one-liner,” he said. “But what were you actually talking about when I came in?”

“Eliza’s project,” Laurens gestured to her sketchbook. “She’s revising scenes from the Bible.”

“Oh _awesome,”_ said Hamilton enthusiastically, flipping through the pages. “You’ve gotta do the covenant. Or the killing of Shechem.”

Eliza pulled a face. “I really _don’t.”_

“What’s this?” asked Hamilton, spotting the painting of Lafayette.

The word “Macho” was sprayed across his bare chest in pink. Next to it lay a bunch of photographs, starting from the very early stages of their friendship. Hamilton looked through them, suppressing the instinctual rising of envy he got whenever they were together without him.

“I’m collecting stories,” Laurens explained, showing Hamilton similar photos of himself and Mulligan. “Documenting the friendship group through the lens of blackulinity.”

Hamilton cringed. “Doesn’t quite work as a portmanteau.”

“No? Black-cho better?”

“No. But it doesn’t matter. Please do me a favour and tell me you’re calling the piece “Brother-hood”.

Laurens snorted. Hamilton tapped a blurry photograph of Laurens and Lafayette at a party, surrounded by a bunch of people Hamilton would not normally associate with. It must have been before he’d met Laurens because he was wearing a polo shirt. And sunglasses.

“Is this when you guys met?” he asked. “Tim Pickering’s?”

“Uh ya,” Laurens replied, squinting at the picture. “Damn. I forget I used to hang out with those guys. First year was weird.”

Hamilton grunted humourlessly, moving the picture with the polo shirt to the back of the pile where he would never have to see it again ever. Freshman year had not been an amazing time for him. He remembered when Lafayette had been unable to shut up about his new friend John Laurens, only a few months after he and Hamilton had met for the first time. 

*

_One year ago_

“I’m telling you, there is no other service desk!” Lafayette said tearfully into the phone, dodging the huddle of boys coming out of the room in front of him. “I have been walking around this building for,” he checked his watch. “Nearly two hours now.”

He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist, leaning against the sides of the hall to avoid the rush of students.

“No, no, they were completely unhelpful,” he shook his head in response to the question. “Of course, that is not to say it was their fault. I am sure they have had a very hard day, and are under a lot of pressure with all the new students arriving today. But they did not have to be rude.” The retort was almost fierce in its reprimand and he found himself becoming defensive. “I am not making excuses for other people, _chérie_. I am just saying that I am not the only one dealing with stress. But I agree, they need not have taken that tone.”

He let out a groan of frustration, turning around so that his forehead fell against the wall. His interactions with the admin staff had been…horrible. He supposed he only had himself to blame for his naivety; nearly all the sitcoms he’d watched had featured a bad-tempered receptionist. He had dismissed it as merely a stock character trope, holding as little veracity as the same shows’ depiction of French people. In his head, the admin staff would be patient and kind, and more than happy to help out a newly arrived foreign student with less than perfect command of the language. Sadly, his first exchange with real life Americans had not lived up to fantasy.

“It is not the accommodation I am worried about,” he spoke into the phone. “I can always find a hotel. But if the application has not gone through correctly than perhaps the Visa has not either and I will be sent back. Adrienne I could not deal with the embarrassment, not after all the persuading it took grand-maman to let me come. What will everybody at _Louis_ say, after I did that big speech about defying tradition and following your heart? I can picture them all. Your family and mine, all laughing at me.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus less on Adrienne’s comforting words than the flow of her voice, already an entire ocean away. _My God,_ he thought desperately to himself. _What have I done? What have I done?_

“Uh…hey. Excuse me?”

Lafayette opened one eye to see a short boy with curly hair tied back like a revolutionary standing awkwardly in front of him. It took him a moment to realise he had spoken in French.

“Are you ok?” he asked, still in French. “I just caught some of what you were saying and it sounded like you were having some admin trouble.”

Lafayette lifted his head to stare at the boy, as if in a daze. “You speak French!”

“What is happening?” whispered Adrienne.

 _“Un moment, mon cœur._ We may be in luck _,”_ Lafayette replied hastily before turning back to the stranger. “Yes! I mean, I am. There has been a small mix-up. Reception cannot seem to find any record of my application for accommodation. Even though I have shown them the email saying I have gotten into the school, for some reason it does not seem to be enough. I didn’t quite understand what they were saying, because even if the accommodation hasn’t gone through I have still been accepted at the university so it should not be an issue. But I don’t think either of us got it across very well, because of the language barrier, and then…ah. I am afraid I got a little upset, and may have raised my voice and they asked me to leave before they called security.”

He said it all very quickly, and saw the boy’s eyes widen as he attempted to follow. When he was done however he nodded, as though he had at the very least caught the gist.

“Yeah, that sounds…almost exactly like what happened to me,” he told him. “Fuckin’ international school my ass. If they can’t get their shit together for someone less than three thousand miles away I can’t imagine what people from even further must go through. And I had a goddamn nightmare getting all my stuff sorted, let me tell you. At least English is my first language. I saw them drilling some kid with a really thick accent today. Really good English you know, but it was almost like they were being deliberately obtuse. Fuckin’ assholes.”

He sighed, rubbing into the carpet with the sole of his shoe and shaking his head. “Come on,” he said after a moment of dejected silence. “I’ll translate for you. Together we might make ourselves understood.”

“Thank you so much!” Lafayette exclaimed, face breaking into a delighted grin. “Ah, one moment. It is alright,” he spoke excitedly into the phone. “I have made a friend. He has offered to help me speak to reception.” He nodded absently, making agreeable humming noises to the many demands. “Yes, yes. Of course. I will call you with an update as soon as I know what’s going on. Thank you, I think it will now. I love you too.”

He hung up, already feeling a pang of loneliness and grief at the loss. His new friend looked at him sympathetically. “Your parents?” he asked.

Lafayette shook his head. “No, my parents are dead,” he said matter-of-factly. “My girlfriend, Adrienne. She is in France.”

“Ah. I’m sorry,” said the boy, pulling an appropriate expression. He hesitated before saying, “I’m actually an orphan too.”

Lafayette started, eyes widening with delighted incredulity. “Really?!” he said, almost jumping with excitement. “What luck! Ah, I mean, not for either of us obviously,” he laughed awkwardly before sticking out his hand. “I am Lafayette.”

“Alexander Hamilton,” said Hamilton, taking the proffered hand. “Do you just have the one name? Like Prince?”

Lafayette laughed again. “It is like Prince in a way,” he admitted. “Lafayette is a title. My full name is Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette.”

Hamilton blinked at him. “Right,” he said, once his brain had fully computed the enormity of this statement. “But you go by Lafayette.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s what you put on your accommodation form?”

“Of course.”

Hamilton nodded. “I think I’m beginning to see the problem here.”

They approached the service desk, Lafayette keeping a wary distance and scuffing his feet rather than meet the receptionist’s eye. Hamilton directed the conversation, pausing occasionally to gesture to Lafayette or toss him a question before finally breaking off, waving at Lafayette to draw nearer. He did so nervously, throwing mindful glances at the security guards standing near the doors.

“So basically,” Hamilton sighed, turning to explain to him in French. “It’s not enough that you have your acceptance letter from the university. They don’t have any record that you’ve actually accepted the place.”

“But I did!” Lafayette protested, feeling tears threaten to prick his eyes again. “I processed it late because…well…there was some uncertainty among my family about whether I’d be attending. But I rang them up a week before to check and they assured me that it was all okay.”

Hamilton turned back to repeat what he’d said to the receptionist who clicked her tongue, scrolling through the database. “We don’t have any record of a Gilbert Lafayette on the system,” she deadpanned.

“Try, what was it?” Hamilton checked with Lafayette. “du Motier.”

The receptionist did. There was a tense silence while Lafayette held his breath, crossing his fingers behind his back. After what felt like an age, the receptionist uttered a little _Oh,_ expression shifting sheepishly.

“Uh…Mary Joseph Paul Evie Richard Gilbert de Motty-er,” she said dully.

“That’s me!” Lafayette exclaimed ecstatically, actually leaping up and down with joy.

“Apologies,” said the receptionist sincerely. “Everything’s put into a spreadsheet manually. Someone must have entered in the details wrong.”

“You’d like to think our entire immigration system didn’t work the same way,” Hamilton responded sarcastically.

“You are officially listed to start next week,” the receptionist informed Lafayette. “But I’m afraid we still don’t have anything for your accommodation. It will likely take a couple of weeks to get that processed.”

Lafayette waved dismissively. “No matter,” he replied. “I will find a hotel.”

Hamilton pulled a face. “That’ll be pricey as fuck though,” he said. “Make sure the university gives you compensation. Also will your loan cover it? I don’t know about you, but my bursary only barely covers my rent, and I’m in the cheapest dorms on campus. Also, there’s a chance that because of this they'll have had trouble processing your student finance.” 

Lafayette shook his head. “I don’t have a loan,” he replied. “My grandmother is paying for everything out of my inheritance.”

Alexander’s eyes widened in disbelief. He let out a low whistle. “Wow,” he shook his head amusedly. “Lucky for some. Who the hell is your grandmother?”

“Marie Catherine de Suat, dame de Chavaniac,” Lafayette replied immediately, already fishing out his phone so that he could call Adrienne. “You will have to come to Haute-Loire and visit sometime. She would love to have you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen i'll be the first to admit that i don't know the ins and outs of the US immigration system but in the UK it is LITERALLY an intern manually entering names into a spreadsheet and because of typos people getting lost or mixed up and that is EXACTLY HOW THE WINDRUSH SCANDAL HAPPENED and my family almost had to LEAVE THE COUNTRY AFTER 50 YEARS OF LIVING HERE smh
> 
> Also i know it's not exactly 1 year (more like a year and a half) but the timeline's already pretty fucked as it is and i have only the vaguest idea of chronology so when I refer to flashbacks as taking place a year ago just assume i have a more specific date in mind.
> 
> so great to see old faces(ish)! I missed you guys!


	3. Computer Love - Kraftwerk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what to do, I need a rendezvous

“-And it’s not like I haven’t dealt with this shit before,” Hamilton continued, his hand movements getting bigger the smaller the hallway became. “Even back in the Caribbean people made comments every now and then you know, made their displeasure known. I remember this one time my brother and I were at the beach, and my mom was washing the sand off us in the…what do you call it. The water fountains. Anyway, this lady behind us was making a really big deal out of waiting, y’know, kissing her teeth and like, huffing and swearing and all. Until finally she snaps, tells mom to go back to her own country so she can wash her own kids who belong here.” Alexander laughed. “She thought we were tourists.”

“Wait, hold up,” Laurens held out his hand, one word registering with him above everything else. “You have a _brother?”_

“Uh, yeah. I guess. Yeah,” Hamilton shrugged, then laughed again. “I don’t know why I said ‘I guess’. His name’s James.”

“How… _how_ is it you’ve never mentioned him before?” Laurens asked, stunned.

Hamilton shrugged again. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I guess I never really think about him much. We got separated after my mom died. Haven’t seen him since. Plus, he was kind of a dick.”

They reached his dorm. Laurens watched Hamilton fumble with the key, too deep in shock to say much else. Meanwhile, Hamilton kept up the flow of chatter. “Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah. So I was getting shit for being mixed even before coming to America. In some ways it’s worse when you’re smart, y’know, when you actually wanna try at school. Because then it’s kind of like you’re picking the white man side, y’know. The traitor side. And if you get ahead of course then it’s the light-skin privilege kicking in, and for real, a lot of the time it actually is. I’m not saying I wouldn’t have gotten that job at _Beekman and Cruger’s_ so young if I wasn’t mixed,” he added quickly. “That’s crazy. But like…it definitely helped, considering its main clientele were tourists and white people who definitely got their kicks out of seeing a cute little mixed-race fourteen-year-old manning the front desk.”

He finally got the door open and, after pushing it open with his shoulder, shook off his coat, hanging it on the peg on the other side. Laurens followed suit, draping his yellow parker over Hamilton’s jacket. Hamilton moved instinctively towards the kettle he kept illegally, filling it up with water from the en suite bathroom and flicking the switch. He grabbed two dirty cups while it bubbled, swishing them under the tap and heaping in generous spoonfuls of coffee.

“It got worse after I made the decision to get rid of my accent,” he informed Laurens conversationally, passing him a mug once the kettle had boiled. “Don’t tell me you can still hear it, I _know_ it’s there if you listen hard. And obviously I feel guilty about it, and if people wanna see me as some sort of sell-out then they’re perfectly within their rights to. But like, I _see_ how hard it is for immigrants to get by in this world, and nine out of ten times it’s just because they don’t speak like a local, no matter how good their English is. It’s dumb, and xenophobic as fuck, and grammar is inherently a racist, outdated structure which is dying out due to Internet culture anyway. But. As long as the ruling institutions remain in place I intend to stay on top of them, even if that means flattening a few vowels and adding some gs here and there.”

He blew twice on the surface and took a sip, steam curling round the edges to form tiny drops of condensation on the tip of his nose. Laurens held the mug in front of him as he waited for it to cool, his mind still struggling to process the conversation since they had started it.

“It’s an age old argument,” Hamilton continued, setting his coffee on the desk and kicking off his shoes. “For mixed and black people alike. If they talk white, go to a good school, join certain societies or read certain books…hell,” he laughed again. “Even if they enjoy certain types of _music_ then that somehow affords them less of a claim to the traumas passed down to them by blood. As if the whole of society doesn’t just see another black man, when it’s dark enough outside.”

He collapsed onto the bed, bouncing rather than sinking into the mattress, which was very hard.

“Anyway,” he said, looking up to beam at Laurens. “I don’t know why I’m explaining this to _you._ You get it.”

Laurens shook his head, carefully taking off his own shoes. “Actually I don’t,” he replied, settling next to Hamilton on the bed. “I mean, I understand, of course. But my experience was...pretty different growing up.”

“Yeah?” Hamilton asked softly, in the voice he always used whenever he wanted Laurens to talk about his past.

Laurens nodded, scratching self-consciously at the back of his neck. “My dad never treated me any different,” he explained. “Growing up, it was just like I was one of the others. It wasn’t something we ever talked about. I never even realised I was black until I got to high school, and people asked if I was related to Michael Jackson.”

Hamilton stared at him, scandalised. “You… _what?”_ he sputtered, genuinely affronted. “John, I am telling you now…You look absolutely _nothing_ like Michael Jackson.”

Laurens waved dismissively. “Don’t think I don’t know that,” he said. “It was an international boarding school. For a lot of kids, that was the only black person they’d ever heard of.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hamilton muttered, turning his gaze towards the ceiling. “What was the rest of the time like?”

Laurens shrugged. “Pretty standard,” he replied. “Apart from the occasional remark or joke dressed as a stereotype, no one really mentioned it. I was in the kind of friendship group where people smoked weed listening to One Love and rapped along to the n-word.”

Hamilton winced. “Weren’t you in that group in first year as well?” he teased.

“Yeah okay, so it took me a little while to find my people,” Laurens rolled his eyes. “I got there eventually.”

Hamilton smiled, eyes flickering for a second to Laurens’ mouth. “I’m glad you did,” he said.

Laurens grinned back, reaching to tuck a fallen curl behind Hamilton’s ear and leaning in to kiss him. Hamilton responded just enough for their lips to connect before squirming away, pulling his laptop towards him.

“Not yet, I’ve gotta respond to Jefferson,” he said, making a shushing noise at Laurens even though he hadn’t said anything. “Search for a rare Pepe or Kermit or whatever it is you used to do before I was around.”

“For your information, I managed just fine before you came along,” Laurens retorted. _Constrained by an inexplicable loneliness and permanently horny with repressed frustration, but whatever._

Hamilton acted like he hadn’t heard him, too busy drawing up Jefferson’s blog post and re-reading it for talking points. Laurens fished his own laptop out his rucksack, pulling up the chat he had open with Beth. An all-female cultural collective known as Dem-Gal had contacted her looking for DJs, and Beth had seized the opportunity to promote some of the artists she’d been working with. Laurens was flattered she’d thought of him first, except now it meant he was under pressure to come up with new stuff on top of everything he was already doing for clubs and his art project.

“Mind if I play music,” he asked Hamilton after firing off a quick reply to Beth. “Or will it put you off?”

Hamilton shook his head. “Nothing too dutty,” he replied without glancing up.

Laurens chuckled, knowing he was almost definitely using the word satirically but still amused. “Do you know Computer Love by Kraftwerk?”

“Laurens, if you haven’t played it before we started dating, then odds are I do not know it.”

“Fair enough,” said Laurens, pressing play and removing the layers until there was only the underlying melody left.

Time passed like that with Laurens messing around, altering the bass and adding the various effects he could produce without his synthesizer. The result was a sort of relaxed, sci-fi vibe that put him in mind of a lot of colourful buttons and silvery machines; cybernetic passengers on a pleasant day trip through a futuristic landscape, brought to earth only by the background sound of Hamilton’s fingers on the keyboard. Laurens glanced over at him every now and then for inspiration, thinking about what he might look like beneath the light of a dozen moons in a galaxy far, far away. Meanwhile Hamilton worked furiously, clicking to double check the post so often he could already feel himself getting finger cramp.

“Listen to this,” he told Laurens after a while. _“The thing about people like Alex Hamilton is that they hold fast to the mythological fantasy where to be half-black is any kind of problem, in order to claim some form of justification for their misdirected identity angst. The falsehood of this conception has been apparent since slavery times, with people of lighter skin being entitled to better conditions, almost to the point of equality with their white kin._ How do I even respond to that without sounding like I’m taking it seriously?”

“Are you asking for my help, or making a rhetorical statement?” Laurens replied idly, increasing the volume on the Sun Ra song he had transposed in.

“Both.”

“What platform are you on?”

Hamilton swivelled his laptop round to show Laurens the Twitter thread. “I’m basically just numbering all his main points and going through them systematically,” he explained. “Thought about doing my own post but it wouldn’t get as big a reach.”

“Why don’t you say what you just told me? Share some of your own first-hand experiences.”

Hamilton pulled a face. “This isn’t about me,” he said. “Jefferson’s using me as a springboard, but he’s trying to poke holes in a bigger argument. He knows full well that people see me as ‘black’ black, not like Burr or Meghan Markle or…or…”

“Or me,” Laurens said bluntly.

Hamilton hesitated. Sensing his discomfort, Laurens brushed it aside. “It’s cool, dude. It took Charles Lee three months of making Daddy Yankee jokes before he realised I’m Puerto Rican.”

“Right,” said Hamilton, still uncertain. “Lee is an idiot. Anyway, point is Jefferson is trying to draw attention away from the big issues by making this personal, and I don’t wanna let him.”

“Use me then,” Laurens shrugged. “Just attach an article where I get arrested and make sure it refers to me as ‘Henry Laurens’ Black Sheep’ or whatever.”

Hamilton hesitated again, actually chewing his lip with apprehension. It was very annoying, and Laurens had to restrain himself from telling him to stop. Finally Hamilton spoke, his words careful and deliberate as if he were breaking bad news to someone with a long history of flying off the handle. “Thing is they dropped the charges,” he began. _“Because_ you’re Henry Laurens’ son. So that part at least…kind of proves Jefferson’s argument.”

Laurens nodded slowly, feeling the heat begin to prickle his cheeks. “Right,” he said. “Ya. Sorry. Forgot about that.”

“I’m not trying to belittle your experiences,” Hamilton said quickly. “I’m just trying to think like they do.”

Laurens nodded, knowing his face was half-way to red and cursing internally because of it. “Right,” he said again. “Sure. Of course, I get it.”

He turned away to avoid the suddenly uncomfortable intensity of Hamilton’s gaze, looking fixedly at the screen of his laptop; however, Hamilton’s eyes remained trained on him, and he sensed the need to brace himself before the question left his mouth.

“Hey John,” Hamilton began, again using that annoyingly cautious tone that made him feel like a landmine. “It’s cool if you don’t wanna talk about it, or whatever, but…did anything happen between you and your dad over break?”

“I already told you it didn’t,” Laurens replied shortly.

“I know, but you seemed kind of happy to be out of there. Like, Point Break happy.”

“Point Break?”

“He jumps out the plane without a parachute, right? That’s a thing that he does? I don’t know, I didn’t watch a lot of TV growing up. I liked Keanu Reaves, though. Tumblr says he’s immortal now and I totally buy that, he’s had that sexy Nosferatu thing going on since Dracula.”

“This is really your way of telling me you have a thing for Nosferatu?”

“No, I have a thing for Nosferat- _you,”_ Hamilton grinned, poking him in the side and when Laurens snorted, “Come on, John. Quit hoarding your confessions. Won’t achieve ever-lasting life that way.”

“Nothing… _happened,”_ Laurens sighed, leaning back on the bed until he was resting against the wall. “We didn’t argue, or anything. We just didn’t talk. It was like I was invisible. The one time we got anywhere near it is was when we were having breakfast, and it came on the news; he got up very carefully and switched the television off. Then he looked at me and said: ‘I hope you know what your irresponsibility is costing this family’.”

“God,” Hamilton breathed, his fist tightening against the sheets.

“Marti got really mad at him,” Laurens continued, smiling bitterly. “She hardly ever answers back, but this time she just snapped. Almost started yelling until he threatened to send her to her room,” the smile softened at the edges and he ducked his head. “He’s pretty soft on her, so it was kind of cool that she did that. Felt nice to have someone on my side.”

“She sounds cool,” Hamilton nodded encouragingly. “Like a fighter.”

“Yeah she is,” Laurens agreed. “She’s a bit like you, actually. Er…in the least weird way possible.”

Hamilton laughed. “Got it,” he said, propping his legs over Laurens’ comfortably. “Looking forward to meeting her.” Catching the look on Laurens’ face, he moved swiftly to make amends. “In the totally innocuous, right public setting, of course. Lafayette can even be there. You’re still allowed to be friends with me, right?”

“Just about,” Laurens recovered with a sheepish smile. “Just no activism stuff.”

“Right, right,” Hamilton nodded absently, scrolling through his laptop to find a decent GIF to tweet Jefferson. “No activism stuff.”

*

 “Hello all, and welcome to the first SJC meeting of the new term,” Hamilton greeted, punctuating the announcement with two quick fist pumps. “Thanks for coming. First, a quick summary on where things stand. Last term, we did a lot of good work in raising enough money to help Jamal’s family fight this in court,” he scrawled _short term aim 1_ on his new flip-chart, following with a large tick. “We also helped raise the profile of affiliation privilege on campus, culminating in some…er…unfortunate circumstances,” he tilted his head deferentially at Laurens, who responded with jazz hands. “Which none the less had the excellent result of getting Drayton suspended,” he ticked off _short term aim 2._ “And generating sympathy with the idea of a university court for the swift deliverance of impartial justice.”

He scribbled and ticked _long term aim 1_ on the flipchart, underlining _*CELEBRATE*_ in large letters beneath it. The room gave a dutiful cheer, Meade and Mulligan leaning across Tallmadge to shake hands while Angelica and Eliza did the wave. Hamilton permitted it for a good five seconds before drawing attention back to himself.

 “Yep, really great stuff,” he nodded heartily. “Unfortunately, Drayton’s suspension ends soon and the normalisation of his presence on campus could be detrimental to our plans. We’ve got the ball rolling with Washington’s support and the interest of some board members, however, nothing set in stone as of yet. The higher ups have made it quite clear that we’ve got to do the legwork for this, so we should all get started with that as soon as possible. I’ve got exams as well as student council stuff going on, which is why…” reaching beneath his sweater, he produced a sheaf of papers with a flourish. “I have put together research assignments for you all!”

“Have you been keeping those under your sweater by way of your armpit, purely for the purposes of dramatic effect?” Angelica wrinkled her nose.

“Good question Angelica,” Hamilton pointed at her. “Which, because I know my rights, I also know I do not have to answer.” 

“In the future, can we have clean homework please?” asked Tallmadge, gingerly accepting his assignment with a look of disgust.

“It’s clean,” said Hamilton reproachfully. “What, are you saying I don’t shower or something?”

“I’m saying I know what you’re like during exam season.”

“Laurens, tell Ben Tallmadge I shower,” Hamilton ordered.

Laurens frowned at his piece of paper, head jerking up indignantly. “You’re giving me _dietary?”_

“Uh…yeah?” Hamilton blinked innocently, trying not to look ruffled. “What? It’s important.”

“It’s _meal planning.”_

“Yeah, and the choices in the cafeteria are abysmal at the moment. It’s been a year since I proposed it at student council and there’s still only a vegan option once a month.”

“What, so you’re giving me the voice of dreadlocked white dudes who think not getting enough lentils is the equivalent of a hate crime?”

“Hey, many people are vegan,” Mulligan frowned at him. “Not just dreadlocked white people. Jains for example, and a lot of Hindus and Buddhists.”

“Plus the egg and dairy industry is one of the most unethical,” Eliza chipped in. “Not just in terms of animal welfare, but the influence of dairy corporations on legislative policy has been undocumented in its power since World War II.”

“Lafayette, what have you got?” Laurens reached to his right, making to snatch Lafayette’s sheet out of his hands.

“Don’t be a bully,” Lafayette snapped, moving to hold the page out of Laurens’ reach but was too slow.

“What the hell?” Laurens protested, eyes skimming over Lafayette’s research assignment. “Foreign student access? May includes _negotiations with international student organisations?_ Why does he get the chance to work with international bodies?”

“Because…he’s an international…student?” Hamilton replied slowly, unsure how to make it more obvious. “And he speaks another language.”

“I speak more languages than him!”

 “Really?” Angelica turned to him in surprise. “What do you speak?”

“German, French, and Spanish.”

“Oh wow, hey. That’s pretty good, I didn’t know that.”

“No, neither did I.”

“Lafayette, swap with me,” Laurens demanded.

“No!” exclaimed Lafayette protectively, grabbing the assignment out of Laurens’ hands and hugging it to his chest.

“Hamilton, give me something other than eggs,” Laurens pleaded desperately.

“You can have LGBTQ+ if you want,” Tallmadge offered, passing his own assignment to Laurens who stared at it without taking it, looking if possible even more reluctant.

“Hey,” said Hamilton seriously, pointing a reprimanding finger. “No swapsies. Everyone sticks with what they’ve got.”

“This is so unfair,” Laurens scowled, crossing his arms childishly over his chest.

“Well, at least you didn’t get profiled to do female issues exclusively because you’re a woman,” said Angelica, pursing her lips together.

“You specifically _asked me_ for female issues,” Hamilton responded tiredly.

“Oh yeah. Thanks.”

“Great, so now _she_ gets to _ask?”_ Laurens protested, waving his arms self-righteously.

“Laurens, quit being a baby,” Hamilton retorted sharply. “Everyone gets what they’re best suited for. I’m sorry there’s no such thing as discrimination against Disk Joskeys, or turtle baiting on campus.”

“Disk-rimination,” Tallmadge smirked.

“Shut up, Ben,” muttered Hamilton.

“Fine,” snarled Laurens, falling back in his chair and pulling his beanie low over his face. _“Fine.”_

Hamilton let out a heavy breath and counted down from five, taking a moment to compose himself before readdressing the group. “Okay!” he clapped his hands sunnily. “So if everybody could put together thorough research reports on issues and injustices within their assigned field, the more historical the better, and if you could get them to me in…” he brought up the calendar on his phone, scrolling through it quickly. “The Curtis trial is in three weeks and will affect whatever we bring to the board. So by then would be great. If you’re having any trouble let me know in advance and I’ll see if I can get anyone else to take over, or I’ll take up the slack myself. Angelica, I know you have Econ as well-”

“-Don’t worry about it,” Angelica cut him off. “The reason I asked for female issues is so I could delegate most of it to FemSoc.”

Hamilton inclined his head in gratitude. “Okay. Great. Eliza, you got the minutes? I don’t think there’s anything else-”

“Hold on,” Meade rose his hand. “What are we gonna do about Jefferson?”

Hamilton looked at him quizzically. The others were also staring at him expectantly, as if this was the question that was on everyone’s mind. “I mean…I know he’s a pain,” he started warily. “But I don’t think the time has come to silence him…permanently.”

“I mean his blog, and upcoming publication in a school magazine,” Meade continued. “What he said was really serious, Alexander. I know you shut him down on Twitter and that was great and all, but from where I was sitting it looked like he had quite a lot of support.”

“All of them morons,” Hamilton said dismissively. “Near drop-outs and 4chan stoners, nothing we need to worry about.”

“The morons have never been louder,” Mulligan argued. “You know how this works. One guy starts saying something people have been thinking privately. Suddenly all the racists and alt-right assholes come out the woodwork, even if the demagogue isn’t particularly one himself.”

“I see what you’re saying,” Hamilton accepted grudgingly. “I’ll look into it. But for now, I really don’t think it’s anything we need to lose sleep over. Focus on this, don’t give Jefferson the honour of proving a capable distraction.”

He dismissed them. Meaning to head to the library, Hamilton gestured to Laurens to leave without him which he did none too reluctantly, racing to catch up with Mulligan and Lafayette.

“Did you guys know Hamilton has a brother?” he asked them.

They both stared at him as if he’d spoken in German.

“No!” Lafayette exclaimed, looking shocked and quite genuinely hurt. “He never told me that!”

“Me neither,” Mulligan said, brow pinched with concern. “Wow. Imagine keeping that quiet for so long.”

Laurens hummed in agreement, spitefully glad that Hamilton had trusted him with this at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> michael jackson. for real. No context as to which stage of his life they were referring to either *shakes head sadly*
> 
> I need to sort out a regular updating schedule but starting from next week I think (i THINK) it will be mondays and wednesdays


	4. Inertia Creeps - Massive Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two undernourished egos, four rotating hips

“I’m here, I’m here,” Hamilton announced, almost tripping over a chair leg in his hurry to take his seat. “Sorry I’m late, I had a thing-”

“Let the record state Hamilton is late _again,”_ Jefferson drawled to the minute taker.

“Let the record state I have more going on than student council and throwing petty shade behind the pusillanimous safety of a computer screen,” Hamilton replied smartly. “Nice font, by the way. The subtle elegance of the Garamond really makes the puerility pop.”

“Alexander, are you suggesting that your other commitments are preventing you from taking student council meetings seriously?” asked Burr, looking at him boredly from over the tops of his glasses.

“I assure you sir, I would rather die,” Hamilton replied.

“Wow, would you look at that,” Jefferson leaned back in his seat, drumming an expensive-looking fountain pen against the surface of the table. “Hamilton unable to respond to a direct question without the use of sarcasm.”

“Kind of hard to be anything but facetious when you’re a black person accused of being a white saviour,” Hamilton retorted. “Seriously Thomas, did you find yourself a random discourse generator and just write down every other new word? Because about 70% of it made less sense than that $800 burlap sack you’re wearing.”  

“So it was the remaining 30% which touched a nerve?”

“Sure. If by ‘touching a nerve’ you mean ‘possible to respond to without looking like someone shouting at a grade schooler’.”

“Sharp tongue you’ve got there,” Jefferson raised an eyebrow. “Did you cut yourself licking your wounds?”

“Both of you stop it,” Madison muttered curtly.

“What’s that, James?” Hamilton asked loudly. “Are we about to see you pick a side?”

“I think you’re both being ridiculous.”

“Not that this isn’t fun,” said Gouverneur Morris impatiently. “But can we maybe leave the pissing contest somewhere we won’t all slip in it.”

“Yes, thank you Gouverneur,” Burr interceded smoothly. “Hamilton. Now that you’re here, maybe you would like to put forward your proposal?”

“Certainly,” Hamilton answered briskly, unzipping his bag and withdrawing his notes. “Reviewing the costs from last term and after conducting a thorough inspection of the computer labs, I have concluded that the surplus would be best put to use in securing new equipment. Nearly all the computers except those in the professor’s lounge are still using Windows 7 which is…just embarrassing, frankly, and several students have reported crashes as well as finding the general system overly complicated. We have enough in the budget to kit out at least three labs while also looking into a smoother-running communications platform. If you take a look at the report I’ve photocopied for you, a painstaking feat might I add due to the equipment’s aforementioned crappiness, you’ll see that I’ve already begun to make some enquiries. You’ll also find at the back a survey conducted by students, who were asked to rate the campus computers on a scale from ‘adequate’ to ‘a national embarrassment’ and if you’ll just look…yep, that’s a resounding win for ‘national embarrassment’ right there on page 12.”

“Thank you, Alexander,” Burr said, making a few idle notes before looking up. “Was there a counter-motion? Or are we happy to let it go straight to vote?”

“I have another proposal,” said Jefferson.

“Seriously?” Hamilton rolled his eyes. “This better be a _real_ counter-motion, Thomas. Not a filibuster.”

“It’s shorter than yours,” Jefferson replied smarmily. “I propose we take the surplus and invest it in the new lots just opened up in Fort Royal. The council has their eye on the land for state housing, but at the moment the properties are going cheap to attract new buyers. Taking ownership of the area means we wouldn’t be charged any more for the properties the university already owns. The surplus won’t cover it completely, meaning we’ll likely make a loss this term, necessitating cuts to funding in other departments. However, we should have a 15% increase in yield by the end of the purchase.”

“You’re saying take away potential housing from the council,” Hamilton deadpanned disbelievingly. “For an entirely pointless effort in land expansion.”

“Investment serves its own point, Hamilton,” Jefferson answered condescendingly.

“Don’t patronise me about investment,” Hamilton snapped. “I’m an adult. I own shares.”

“Staples,” Nik Fish whispered in response to Gouverneur’s inquiring expression.

“Spending money on the computer labs would be wasteful,” Jefferson continued, ignoring him. “Considering nearly everyone uses their own laptops anyway.”

“Excuse you, what about the bursary students?” Hamilton asked, voice fiery. “A lot of kids on special circumstances depend on the school’s computer resources. They deserve modern, functioning equipment.”

“And they make up, what? Five percent of the student body?” Jefferson challenged. “This property purchase will ensure the whole school benefits in the long term.”

“At the expense of curtailing solutions to immediate problems,” Hamilton argued. “This is…inane. We don’t have the resources to build on the land. We _definitely_ don’t have the funds for the upkeep of the property. What you’re going to end up with is a muddy strip of nothing that you might make fifty bucks off a week, through charging it to a Little League, while depriving homes from people who could actually _use_ it. It’s aimless, irresponsible and completely, _completely_ unnecessary.”

“It’s a long-term investment,” Jefferson said impatiently. “How is that aimless?”

“Because…there’s no aim…to it? Just repeating the words ‘long-term investment’ doesn’t change that.”

“Alright, enough,” said Burr sharply before Jefferson could retort. “Any other motions, or are we ready to vote?”

There was a brief silence as Hamilton and Jefferson glowered at each other. Burr made a big deal of looking round the room. When no further motions came he cleared his throat.

“Okay,” he said. “Those in favour of using the surplus to refurbish the computer labs?”

Hamilton, Burr, Morris and Fish put their hands up, as well as several others. Hamilton felt a stirring of pleasant surprise at Burr’s unexpected support as he counted the votes, tallying them neatly. “And those in favour of purchasing the lots at Fort Royal?”

Jefferson and Madison raised their hands. Hamilton’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach at the vast number of people following suit, more than half the room. It was enough that Burr didn’t need to count them to know the proposal had been won.

“Fort Royal it is,” Jefferson grinned smugly, leaning back in his chair and hooking his legs beneath the table. “Better luck next time, Hamilton.”

*

“It’s just so transparent,” Laurens complained to Lafayette as they walked slowly alongside the buffet. “I was talking to him literally yesterday evening about how my dad doesn’t want me doing any more activism stuff. And now this morning he gives me the most low-profile assignment out of everyone? Who does he think he’s kidding?”

“So he doesn’t want to get you into anymore trouble,” Lafayette shrugged, wrinkling his nose as he peered into the different lunch options. “If you ask me, it is surprisingly considerate of him.”

“Right. Surprisingly,” Laurens jerked his head. “Since when has he cared about what my father thinks, or any authority beyond his own moral compass?”

“Uh, this is just a stab in the wind,” Lafayette replied, moving swiftly away from the curdling meatloaf. “But perhaps since he started going out with his son? Or in the light of the fact that he is at least partially responsible for what happened to you.”

Laurens looked at him sharply. “That wasn’t his fault.”

Lafayette made an elaborate and ultimately indecipherable gesture. “No. Well.” _Debatable._ “He probably feels very guilty about it, and that it is his duty not to let it happen again.”

“It’s not his prerogative to feel guilty about,” Laurens bristled. “Not everything is about him. It was _my mistake._ Why can’t he at least leave me the agency to perform my own fuck ups.”

Lafayette, who honestly could not relate to either of the two wanting a claim over the utter fiasco that was the protest, said nothing, instead leaning forward to examine the vegetarian option. “Excuse me,” he asked the lunch-lady. “Is this macaroni gluten-free?”

The lunch lady stared at him. “There’s cheese in it,” she replied non-comprehendingly.

“Ah, yes. I can see that, thank you. But actually I was wondering whether there is gluten in this pasta,” he jabbed repeatedly at the macaroni, smiling so as not to come across as antagonistic.

Clearly it hadn’t worked as the lunch lady’s eyes narrowed. “You’re holding up the line,” she said.

Lafayette apologised to the lunch lady and the person behind him before hurrying away swiftly, taking Laurens’ arm. “I am doing your job for you,” he hissed at him. “And you can see it is not an easy one.”

“It’s _pointless,”_ Laurens accentuated, waving the clipboard he was carrying around to make himself feel at least a little important. “You don’t need to ask anyone to see there’s almost no variety. They’ve been serving cheese-and-tomato-fish every Monday after pizza Friday for a year now. Do they think we’re stupid? Obviously they just scrape the leftovers off the plates and put them with a fillet under the microwave.”

“Oh my God they do that,” Lafayette stared, the realisation only just sinking in.

“Also, how is this ‘what I’m best suited for’?” he asked, sketching quotation marks with his fingers. “I don’t have a background in food preparation. We have a cook, as Hamilton doesn’t hesitate to remind me.”

“You did not look enthusiastic about Benjamin’s offer of LGBTQ+ issues,” Lafayette observed idly.

“Why should I?” Laurens answered crossly. “‘Liking boys’ is not an exploitable skill or resource.”

“Even if it was, you would do badly at it,” Lafayette sniggered.

“I just don’t get why he’s trying to side-line me,” Laurens continued, fortunately as though he hadn’t heard him. “I could be a useful tool. What’s even the point of getting jumped on by four cops and nearly having my lungs crushed if we just act like it never happened?”

“He does not want to take advantage of your trauma,” Lafayette replied, check-listing the items on sale when it became clear Laurens wasn’t going to do it.

“I wish people would stop saying that,” said Laurens impatiently. “It wasn’t a trauma. I’m fine. Anyway, the whole _point_ was to take advantage. That’s why he wrote that damn article in the first place. Why stop at half-measures?”

“Laurens, your father only just stopped short of blackmailing Alexander to stay away from you,” Lafayette replied curtly, tearing off the filled-out checklist and shoving it at him. “And that was without even knowing you are a couple. Despite his flaws, your father is a significant person in your life whom you think of highly. Alexander knows and respects that. Do you not think it possible that aside from not wanting to do any more to jeopardise the relationship between you two, he might want Henry to actually _like_ him?”

Laurens blinked, the thought having quite genuinely never occurred to him before. “But…uh…” he tossed around in his head for a counter-point, momentarily thrown by the question. “I didn’t think…why should Alex bother if some rich, old, white dude likes him or not? _I_ like him.”

Lafayette raised an eyebrow. “This is Alex we are talking about,” he said. “Outside of us, his friendship circle rotates almost exclusively around rich old white dudes.”

Laurens was silent at that, remembering with sudden hollowness where Hamilton had spent the majority of his vacation. “Eliza’s parents really liked him, huh?” he deadpanned.

Lafayette gave him a look. “Don’t be petty,” he said, leading him towards the main body of the canteen.

“Not being petty,” Laurens muttered, following reluctantly.

“Good afternoon,” said Lafayette pleasantly, stopping before a table of freshmen. “May we take up a moment of your time to ask a few questions?”

“Uh, sure,” replied a kid, looking uncertainly at her friend.

Lafayette turned to Laurens who clicked his pen bitterly. “Would you describe the general culinary variety on campus as excellent, very good, adequate, poor, or terrible?”

“Adequate I guess,” the freshman replied.

“Would you say that the food available on campus caters fully to your religious, cultural and dietary needs?”

“There could be more gluten-free options,” said a girl and her friends nodded in agreement.

“Yes! My conclusion exactly,” Lafayette nodded heartily before whispering at Laurens: “Write that down.”

“I _am_ writing it down,” Laurens hissed back. “One more question. Has there ever been a time…and excuse the wording of this…that you have felt _oppressed_ by the menu?”

There was a long pause as the freshmen looked at each other. Finally, one spoke up. “It’s kind of gross that there’s a halal option,” she said. “It makes me feel uncomfortable and threatened. Plus, it’s, like, totally animal cruelty.”

 _“Ooo_ kay,” said Laurens abruptly, tucking his clipboard under his arm. “I think we’re done here. Thanks, or whatever.”

Lafayette hurried after him as he turned to march brusquely away from the table. “You should write that down too,” he told him. “As evidence of the ignorance and misinformation spread around as a result of cultural prejudice.”

“Right, because we really need more proof that people at this school are racist and dumb,” Laurens said sarcastically, groaning as a certain individual caught his eye. “Speaking of which…”

“Laurens!” Charles Lee hollered across the cafeteria, actually rising halfway out of his seat as if his voice wasn’t loud enough. “Nice clipboard.”

“Hi Charles,” Laurens replied tiredly. “Nice face. You want me to do up the other side for you?”

The imprint left by Laurens’ knuckles from their fight at the club had largely faded; however, the memory of a mottled yellow bruise still clung beneath the folds of his left eye, like old mould. Lee laughed humourlessly, the mirth not quite disguising the bitterness under it. Laurens waited patiently for the testosterone-fuelled repartee to follow, thinking he would allow Lee at least this. The table was full of the people he had hung out with in first year, mostly wealthy stoners and potential coke addicts. Timothy Pickering and Jonny Sullivan raised their hands in greeting before dropping them, looking embarrassed. Thomas Conway ignored him, which was just fine. The last time Laurens had seen him, Conway had just shat into a club sandwich.

“How’s the scene?” Lee asked him. “I hear you’ve moved on to bigger things than Republic now.”

“I still play there sometimes,” Laurens replied. In truth they had recently offered him a new contract to play for them exclusively, and more money than Laurens thought he had a right to. He had turned them down for the sake of artistic integrity – they were becoming way too corporate. Lee didn’t need to know that though. “I’ve got some gigs coming up soon. You should come.”

“I don’t know man,” Lee replied. “Not really my thing anymore.”

Laurens shrugged tiredly. “Okay man,” he said, not really caring enough to point out that it had been his thing a month ago, before his drug-fuelled rampage had ended up with him almost drowning in the Bethesda Fountain.

Lee it seemed, however, was not done. “How’s Alex Hamilton these days?” he asked.

Laurens resisted throwing a glance at Lafayette, focusing instead on keeping his voice light. “Fine?” he replied. “He has exams, so. Mucho stress.”

“Really sucked to hear about what happened.”

“Yeah, well,” Laurens said, unable to keep the impatience creeping out his voice. “It happened to me, so. No need to worry about him.”

Lafayette stepped sharply on his foot.

“He was concerned enough to make the national,” replied Lee equally casually. “Thought he might have an emotional stake in it.”

“Hard not to get emotional about an instance of excessive police violence happening before your very eyes,” Laurens replied sarcastically. “Not really sure how much I had to do with it. He’d have done the same for anyone.”

Lafayette stepped on his foot again.

“Stop that,” Laurens snapped at him.

“This school is really going to shit,” Pickering spoke up. “All this pro-Drayton this, anti-Drayton that. It’s all just all one massive ploy for media coverage. Does anyone even have an opinion that doesn’t come straight from either Fox News or the Daily Show anymore?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sullivan shook his head. “It’s all about the likes.”

“Pretty sure there are some issues that aren’t being raised purely for the likes,” said Laurens. “Not that the administration is doing anything about it.”

“Funny thing,” said Lee. “We were just saying before you came over how it’s about time for an overhaul.”

Laurens paused, raising an eyebrow as he looked at Lee oddly. “You mean,” he began. “In the ‘let’s try a different filing system’ sense or…Das Kapital?”

“You don’t need to be a genius to see there are obvious problems with leadership,” replied Lee authoritatively. “This school has been on a downwards slope since Washington became President. Like fair enough, he had a good run when he first started. But look around. He’s been captaining a sinking ship for the past five years.”

“And you have been spouting the same unsubstantiated drivel for nearly as long!” Lafayette snapped suddenly, startling Laurens and everyone at the table. “Please, sing a different tune. You are sending us to sleep.”

“I’m not the only one who thinks so,” Lee replied, addressing Lafayette coldly. “More important people than me agree Washington’s losing his touch.”

“Losing his touch?!” Lafayette exploded. “He is not even old! His touch is as good as it ever was, and better than anyone else’s will ever be!”

“Okay,” said Laurens swiftly before Lafayette could say anything that might incriminate Washington in a scandal. “Unless you guys wanna take part in a culinary variety survey, I think we’d better get going.”

“Keep an eye on the newspapers, Laurens,” Lee called after them as he steered Lafayette away.

“What does he mean by that?” Lafayette demanded in a furious undertone.

Laurens shook his head, slinging a comforting yet forceful arm around his shoulders. “Nothing,” he reassured him. “Lee is an idiot.”

Still, as they headed towards the canteen exit, Laurens couldn’t help but throw an anxious glance at their table over his shoulder, very much hoping with everything else they already had on that that was true.

*

“It’s true!” Angelica laughed, picking a section out of her pretzel and placing it carefully into her mouth. “Every time I look in the mirror, Simone de Beauvoir stares back at me.”

“Wait, so is she like, in place of your reflection?” Meade asked her, taking a large bite straight from his own pretzel. “Like, is it a possession thing?”

“No, more like she’s standing right behind me,” Angelica explained. “And of course I’m like: ‘Simone! What are you doing here, I need to get dressed’ but all she ever says is ‘all oppression is a state of war’ and I’m like, ‘I _know_ that Simone. But I’m already running late, and I need to know which shoes go with this eyeshadow.”

Meade laughed loudly, and although Angelica knew he was probably being dutiful, she still hid her smile secretively beneath her glove.

“What about you?” she asked, tearing off another piece of pretzel. “What ghosts are living in your house?”

“Uh, none at the moment,” Meade replied, brushing crumbs off his mouth. “But in our old house in Williamsburg, my younger brother and I were pretty convinced there was one in our attic.”

“Oh really?” asked Angelica interestedly. “What was its name?”

“Tupac.”

The laughter burst from Angelica, so sudden it afforded her no time to hold back a loud snort. Meade grinned incredulously at the sound, broadening when she clapped a hand over her mouth and nose.

“That was so embarrassing,” she said, voice muffled.

“That was adorable,” Meade corrected her.

A bright pink tint crept into Angelica’s cheeks. They sat on the bench at the edge of the quad, content to people watch while they finished their pretzels. The air was quite cold and a gust of wind snatched at Angelica’s dark hair, pulling a strand over her mouth. She brushed it away impatiently with a slight shiver. Meade thought about offering her his coat, but kicked the thought away as too much of a boyfriend-y thing to do. Besides, she was already wearing one.

“Are you going to tell that story to Outreach students?” Angelica asked him.

Meade shrugged. “Might do,” he replied. “Alex already wrote down a pretty detailed strategy of approach in my mission assignment. Not sure why he doesn’t just do it himself to be honest, he seems to be really knowledgeable about it.”

Angelica rolled her eyes. “Alexander has made it a point to seem really knowledgeable about everything since I first met him.”

“How did you meet him?” asked Meade curiously.

Angelica laughed again, this time catching herself before she could snort. “Oh no,” she shook her head. “That is _definitely_ a story that can wait.”

“What,” Meade teased. “Is it more of a third date question?”

Angelica didn’t reply, but her expression shifted. It was almost imperceptible, and would have been completely to someone who didn’t spend as much time with her as Meade did. He regretted it instantly. He managed at least to stop himself from bitterly asking how Jonny was.

“Him and Laurens seem good together,” he said instead, hoping he didn’t sound too much like he was trying to save himself.

“Mm.”

“Good…er. Chemistry. When they talk, you know. They seem to get on well.”

“Yes,” said Angelica tightly.

A tiny sigh escaped her at the end of the word. Catching it, Meade looked at her quizzically. “Are you okay?”

“Hm?” Angelica jerked her head up, blinking as if surprised by the question. “Yes! Of course. Just a bit cold. Simone was right, this is definitely more of a spring jacket.”

“Here,” said Meade, unzipping his coat and offering it to her. “Let’s trade.”

Angelica stared at him non-comprehendingly. “What?”

Meade smiled crookedly at her. “Unless it doesn’t go with your eyeshadow.”

Angelica continued to blink at him for a good few seconds, long enough that Meade was beginning to regret making the gesture. Then slowly, her face broke into a smile, roses flooding back into her cheeks.

They switched jackets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB. My cousin has a ghost in her attic called Tupac.
> 
> details of Angelica and Hamilton's first meeting next chapter (wednesday)


	5. Shade – IAMDDB

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad bitch, no underwear

_One year ago_

Alexander nervously fingered the collar of his shirt, clutching the plastic cup tight in his hand as he surveyed the room. No one he knew was here. True, this was hardly surprising as the grand summation of his acquaintances in New York amounted to four, including the host. Also, it was only the second week. No one really knew anyone. In a lot of ways, this party was all for show.

He pulled out his phone, scrolling through the very short list of contacts. Hercules Mulligan. Aaron Burr. Kitty Livingston. There was also that French guy…what was his name again? Oh yeah. Lafayette. Hamilton was surprised he hadn’t remembered, considering he was just about the only person he had ever met who had talked more than him at lunch. He kind of regretted not asking Kitty if he could bring a plus one. Mulligan had his own friends, but Burr was definitely as lonely and socially awkward as he was. And Lafayette at least would have alleviated the need to make conversation.

“Alexander!” Kitty sang, hurrying towards him and putting a hand on his arm. “How are you doing? Have you met Brian?”

“Uh yeah, briefly,” Hamilton offered Brian an awkward wave, about to ask Kitty how she knew him but she had disappeared again.

He huffed a little, sending a short curl bouncing as he slipped his phone into his back pocket. The reason he hadn’t asked for a plus one was because he had rather hoped (assumed) most of his time would be occupied with Kitty herself. Now though, watching her flit from one guest to another, flirting with a refined skill that was legitimately _enviable_ he thought he could probably put his current awkwardness down to hubris.

“Stupid,” he muttered to himself, quite loudly because there was no one else to talk to. Serve him right for thinking the invitation had been anything more than what it was. That girls were more complicated than they were. _Not girls,_ he corrected himself in his head. _People._ Ingrained misogyny. He really needed to work on that.

Kitty made it _hard_ though.

A high, uninhibited laugh he had heard many times before (three, to be exact. She was giggly after sex) sounded from across the room. Hamilton looked up to see Kitty, her hand on another boy’s shoulder (not Brian) as she steered him towards more exhilarating conversation. Hamilton felt his stomach squirm with disappointment, embarrassment, and more than a little frustration.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he said to no one in particular.

Predictably, no one replied. Hamilton downed the last of his drink and set the cup on the side before heading for the stairs, Kitty’s laughter ringing in his ears against the mantra of _stupid, stupid._ As if the universe would be kind enough to offer him a simple, easy distraction after Anne that wouldn’t end up with him still feeling like he had just been trampled on, as if nice things _ever_ dropped whimsically into his lap, as if life had been one giant picnic since he’d first shot out the womb and he didn’t happen to have the worst luck ever-

He pushed open the bathroom door.

“What the fuck!” the girl screamed, dropping the razor.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Hamilton put out a hand to shield his eyes as the girl scrambled for a towel to cover her bare chest.

“What are you doing in here?!” she shouted, clutching the towel aggressively as if it were a weapon.

“I…was just…I…” Hamilton gestured at the door. “Bathroom! The door was unlocked!”

“The lock doesn’t work,” the girl snarled, regaining enough composure to grab her shirt off the toilet seat.

“Right. Obviously.” Hamilton nodded as if this explained everything, running a hand distractedly through his hair. “Um…sorry. I didn’t realise you were…um...”

“Whatever,” the girl snapped, barging past him with the towel still wrapped around her chest, the razor gripped tightly in her hand.

Hamilton gazed stupidly after her as she marched down the hall into one of the bedrooms, slamming the door shut behind her. Realising what he was doing he shook his head, as if attempting to clear the last thirty seconds, making sure to move the laundry basket securely in front of the door before undoing his zipper.

 

By the following week, Hamilton had successfully managed to block the majority of the party’s traumas from his mind, taken up as it was by the anticipation of classes starting. Bouncing into Economics on Monday morning he grabbed the first seat he saw available at the front, next to a girl with short dark hair cropped close to her chin who was unloading her textbooks onto the desk.

“Hey,” he greeted her with his sunniest smile. “Alexander Hamilton, nice to meet you.”

The girl glanced up. Her eyes narrowed slightly for a second, as though struggling to place him, before suddenly widening. Alexander felt his own do the same.

“You’re…you’re that girl!” he exclaimed, more excited than he really had intended to sound.

“Oh my fucking God,” she said through clenched teeth, cheeks flushing instantly. “Are you serious. Of fucking course this has to happen.”

Hamilton gave an incredulous laugh, hardly believing the odds. “Sorry,” he said quickly, struggling to repress his smirk at her fierce expression. “Although really, you needn’t be embarrassed. They were some really nice…um…I mean, you’re really-”

“Do not finish that sentence,” she told him warningly.

Hamilton raised his hands in self-defence, trying and failing to hide his grin. “Kudos, is all I’m saying,” he said, survival instincts apparently betraying him completely as he seemed unable to stop talking. “But uh, I gotta ask. Could you really not have picked a better time to shave your armpits than at someone else’s party?”

“Kitty’s a friend from high school,” the girl snarled. “I practically live in that house. Anyway, how was I supposed to know someone was just going to come _barging in_ -”

“It was a bathroom! The door was unlocked!”

“Whatever,” the girl leant back in her seat, flicking her fringe out of her eyes. “I don’t have to justify myself to you.”

“No, you don’t,” Hamilton agreed. “You cannot, however, be mad at me.”

“What,” the girl raised a perfectly angular eyebrow challengingly. “For ogling at my breasts?”

“Hey, I did not ogle,” Hamilton protested. “It was kind of hard not to notice them. But uh, yeah, I’ll apologise for commenting on them, I can see how that would maybe not come across as so complimentary under the circumstances.”

“Apology accepted,” the girl replied stiffly.

Hamilton inclined his head, pausing for a moment to calculate the risk before going for it. “They were nice, though.”

There was a very long pause, during which the girl focused intently on flipping through her textbook before muttering, “Thanks.”

Buoyed by this victory, Hamilton propped his elbow onto the desk, leaning against it and closer towards her. “So, what’s your name?”

“Angelica Schuyler,” replied Angelica tersely.

“Well, Angelica. You strike me as a woman unsatisfied. Maybe I can buy you a drink later? Make it up to you, and all.”

Angelica looked at him contemptuously. “Are you serious?”

“What?” said Hamilton, blinking in ignorance.

“You’re _seeing_ Kitty.”

 “I’m not _seeing_ her,” replied Hamilton, ruffled.

“Sleeping with her, then. Talking. Snapchatting.”

“It’s not serious,” Hamilton assured her. He hesitated before asking, “But she’s told you about me?”

Angelica spared him a smug glance, the corners of her own mouth pulling with amusement. “She tells me about all the guys she snapchats.”

“Have you,” Hamilton cleared his throat, looking to his left and right before lowering his voice. “Have you seen the snapchats?”

Angelica’s silent smirk was answer enough.

“Great,” said Hamilton bitterly, leaning back in his chair. “That’s just great. And there _you_ go making me feel like the world’s biggest dick when you’ve actually _seen-”_

“The world’s biggest dick?” Angelica finished for him boredly.

“Your words not mine,” Hamilton forced a grin to cover up his embarrassment. “You can elaborate. I won’t be offended if you want to say something complimentary.”

“I really am ok.”

“It wasn’t…y’know,” he drummed his fingers against the surface of the desk. “At its full potential, either. Just saying. For context, y’know.”

“And I really didn’t ask.”

“Just in case you were wondering,” Hamilton assured her. He chewed his lip, noticing the professor had just come through the door and wanting to settle this before the class started. “Ok, you’ve seen mine, I’ve seen yours. What do you say we call it even?”

He waited patiently as Angelica made a big deal of arranging her pens on her desk. When she looked up however, it was with a grudging smile.

“Even,” she said, holding out her hand.

Hamilton grinned. Shook it.

*

“Hey, are you done with that protractor?” Hamilton asked Angelica.

“Sure, why do you need it?”

“So I can stab myself through the eye.”

Angelica tittered sympathetically, patting Hamilton’s head as he dropped it onto the desk, groaning loudly. “Actually, can you lend me your calculator,” he muttered against his elbow. “So that I can calculate the probability of this day getting any worse.”

“Don’t be a negative Nelly.”

“Can I be a subtractive Nelly?”

“Wow,” Angelica pulled a face. “Math humour? Things must be bad.”

“They really _are.”_ Hamilton sighed, lifting his head off his arms to gaze pathetically at Angelica. “I can’t believe Jefferson’s stupid motion passed. Parks and Rec was right. Terrible people defeat great people all the time.”

“It’s a really stupid motion,” Angelica agreed. “But look at it this way. If the property market fails within the next two years then you get to say ‘I told you so’.”

“I guess,” Hamilton grumbled. “Small comfort when there are poor kids desperately trying to submit post-grad applications on computers running largely on faith and pixie dust. I know my laptop is a piece of shit but it was the first thing I bought after getting here and I wouldn’t have gotten through without it.” He blew out a frustrated breath, sighing softly when Angelica combed through his hair. “Why aren’t you on student council? You could have voted for me.”

Angelica scoffed. “It’s a boy’s club.”

“It _is_ a boy’s club,” Hamilton nodded. “It sucks. Girls get steamrollered all the time, that’s why we need people like you who can hold their own against all the dick slinging.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Think I’m gonna push for a quota system, the makeup’s not even close to fifty-fifty. It’ll be worth it just to be able to laud an affirmative action victory over Jefferson. I’ll add it to my to-do list.”

“Do you ever think maybe you’re juggling too much?” Angelica asked sceptically.

“Yeah,” Hamilton sighed again. “But then I remember I’m gonna die someday, so. Priorities.”

He leant back in his chair until it was teetering dangerously on its legs, drumming his fingers against his textbook. “I can’t believe Adams is marking our essays,” he muttered, thinking back to the last mark he had given him and the irritable comments scrawled into the margins. “If I fail the semester because that moth-eaten sweater vest has it in for me I will face God as I walk backwards into Hell.”

“It might help if you quit deliberately picking titles you know he’ll disagree with,” Angelica pointed out.

“It would help more if he wasn’t such an Adult Virgin,” Hamilton answered brattishly. “I don’t like the way he speaks to me. Like he’s just waiting for me to mispronounce something.” He hummed idly to himself, eyes wandering aimlessly round the Economics common room before throwing out casually, “Also, John’s mad at me. So I can’t even ask him to check my grammar.”

“Because of the task assignment?”

“Mm. Like, I know it was a longshot that he wouldn’t see through my scheming. Why do I have to keep going for the smart ones? Maybe I’m sapiosexual after all and this whole bisexual thing is just a way to make puns.”

“What was your kingdom the last time we played Risk called again?”

“The Bi-zantine Empire.”

“That’s the one,” Angelica nodded at the memory. “Did you explain to John why you left him out of the important stuff?”

Hamilton shook his head. “I knew he’d take offence. He doesn’t like to be patronised.”

“…But hoping he’d just sort of…not notice isn’t patronising?”

Hamilton squirmed uncomfortably. “It’s possible I may have miscalculated,” he admitted. “I haven’t done the Myers Briggs test in a while, but pretty sure I’m only three quarters a logician. Whatever, I’ll make it up to him later.”

He rapped his fingers against the textbook one last time before realising it was probably incredibly annoying and slinking his hands off the table. “Anyway,” he said, looking to change the subject. “How’s it going with you and Meade?”

“What?” Angelica frowned, leaning over to borrow Hamilton’s highlighter.

“Come on,” said Hamilton. “You guys have been spending almost as much time together as me and John.”

“We’re friends.”

“Yeah, so are me and John,” said Hamilton.

“There’s nothing going on,” Angelica told him. “We’re _friends_. We have lunch, we get coffee. There’s nothing going on between me and you.”

“That’s not _my_ fault.”

“That stopped being cute a long time ago.”

“Sorry,” said Hamilton carelessly. “Point stands, though. You and Dick obviously like each other, so I don’t get why you don’t just-”

“I’m with Jonny,” Angelica cut across him sharply. “Alright? He’s not dumping me and I’m not breaking up with him.”

Hamilton wrinkled his nose. “But,” he began. “Do you even want-”

“Alex,” Angelica interrupted, eyes flashing warningly. “Drop it.”

Hamilton did, raising his hands to show he was done. Angelica underlined something in her notes and tossed him back his highlighter.

“I’ll look over your grammar,” she promised him. “But talk to Laurens first.”

*

_AH: Watcha doin_

_JL: 3 guesses_

_AH: Hmm_

_Its 4oclock so u don’t have class_

_and it was leg day yesterday_

_so Im gonna have to guess music_

_JL: 1st shot well done_

_AH: :) Watcha workin on_

Laurens sent Hamilton a Spotify link. “Shade” by someone called IAMDDB. Hamilton took a second to appreciate the gold-covered girl on the front of the album before replying.

_AH: Looks good I’ll listen_

_hehe “Shade”. Kind of ironic since ur throwing me so much._

Laurens took a long time to reply. Long enough that Hamilton thought about sending finger guns to best appeal to his sensibilities.

_JL: are u trying 2 b cute_

_AH: Is it working?_

_JL: a little bit but thats despite ur best efforts_

_AH: I like that ur somehow implying Im so adorable its impossible to sabotage myself_

_JL: oh its definitely possible_

_AH: See look at me exceeding limitations. I should write a self-help guide, dw i’ll credit u in the acknowledgements section. People who raise me up!!!_

_JL: stop it im mad @ u_

_AH: I know and I’m sorry_

_Can i come over tonight and make it up_

_JL: u think u can buy me ?_

_AH: I mean_

_it would be eronoeus to ignore precedent_

_JL: u spelled that all kinds of wrong_

_AH: this is why I need you_

_Pls laurens_

_Pls pappi_

_JL: omg stop that_

_AH: >:D _

_If you dont forgive me the fanfiction daddy kink is only going to get worse_

_JL: wat time can u get here_

_AH: Wait are u actually into it? cos I gotta tell u John I’ve given it a lot of thought and im not sure how I’d feel about being called “baby girl”_

_JL: i will actually break up w u on the spot_

_AH: Lol touched a nerve_

_Ok ok let me finish up here. I’ll be out by 5 then I’ll head straight over_

_JL: *thumbs up*_

_< 3_

_AH: <3_

“Sir?” Hamilton called put, placing his phone back on the desk beside his computer. “Is it ok if I leave at five? I’m almost done here.”

“Of course,” Washington replied, walking out of his office while leafing through a file of papers. “I told you that you didn’t have to come in if it’s too much with exams. I can find a temporary replacement.”

“And run the risk of you gradually getting rid of me?” Hamilton shook his head. “I’m good. Plus I need the money to support my expensive taste in stationary.”

“How’s the stock market?”

“Pretty good, thanks for asking. I might sell soon. I’m thinking Tesla next.”

Washington nodded amusedly, still pretending to be very interested in his papers. “Any plans for the evening?”

“Seeing John,” Hamilton replied casually. “He’s not in the best mood with me at the moment, so I’m gonna try to make nice.”

“Ah. What did you do?

Hamilton lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “Tried to look out for him,” he confessed. “I gave everyone research assignments, y’know, for you and Lafayette’s judiciary thing, and I know his dad doesn’t want him on the front line so I landed him with dietary. He didn’t take it well.”

Washington winced. “I see,” he said. “Yes. Knowing Laurens I can’t imagine he would want to take a backseat.”

Hamilton laughed hollowly. “No,” he agreed. He chewed his lip, not wanting to be disloyal but also secretly wanting to talk to someone about this who wasn’t in the group. He hesitated before continuing. “But…like…I don’t know how much of it is his personality, and how much is just him wanting to get back at something, y’know? I know _I’d_ want revenge, if that happened to me. But he’s not…good at it.”

Washington looked at him questioningly. Hamilton elaborated. “He uses his fists because he hasn’t grown up with the consequences drilled into him of what could happen if he does. So he lashes out, impulsively. Violently. Not very effective in this current climate.”

“I should imagine his recent experiences would have brought that lesson home, if nothing else has,” Washington frowned doubtfully.

“Well, yeah,” Hamilton bobbed his head non-committally. “But y’know. Rich kids. They can afford to be…what’s the word?”

“Intrepid?”

“Right,” Hamilton nodded. “That’s a good one.” He accepted the papers Washington handed him, glancing briefly at the name before filing them in their appropriate cabinet. “I don’t know if it would make it better or worse if I tell him that I did it for myself as much as for him. I don’t want Henry to hate me even more than he already does.”

“I was talking to him about you not long ago. He only had good things to say.”

“Really?” Hamilton actually blushed with pleasure. “Huh. That’s nice. Politicians though,” he added, remembering what Henry had said to him last time they’d spoke. “He probably had his fingers crossed behind his back, just like when he agreed to make free elementary school meals. Doesn’t matter I guess, I don’t know when I’ll next have the chance to suck up to him.”

“Presumably at the trustee dinner.”

Hamilton blinked at Washington, expression unfocused. Washington raised his eyebrows. “It was postponed,” he reminded him. “You remember? For next Thursday.”

“I…yes,” Hamilton shook himself immediately, less shocked by the revelation than by the fact that it had completely slipped his mind. “The trustee dinner. Where I will be…with…with John…and his father will also be there…Great. That’s…super fantastic.”

“You’ll do fine,” Washington assured him. “I used to worry myself silly over these things when I was your age. To tell you the truth, I still do. They’re always far less scary than you think.”

 _Yeah, you didn’t have to balance the pressures of being in a room full of judgemental white people and a secret boyfriend though,_ Hamilton thought to himself. _As far as I know._

Washington turned away to busy himself with the expense reports; meanwhile Hamilton went to deal with the mail. Most of it was addressed to various professors and board members, names which he recognised on account of having typed them so many times they sometimes cropped up in his dreams. He sorted them into the specific piles for their department, brain working on automatic mode, until he came across a lose piece of paper which seemed to have escaped from its envelope. He squinted at it, scanning for clues as to where it belonged but there was no name or organisation as far as he could make out, only numbers. He waved it at Washington.

“Sir,” he said. “Where do you want me to stick this? I think it maybe fell out of the expenses.”

Washington took the piece of paper from Hamilton’s hands, glancing over it briefly.

“Nothing important,” he replied decisively. “It must have gotten loose from one of the other files.”

Hamilton nodded. “Do you want me to shred it?”

“Er…no. That won’t be necessary. I think I’ll just keep hold of it for now.” He lowered the page, tucking it unthinkingly behind his back as he checked his watch. “It’s nearly five now,” he commented. “Perhaps you should get a move on? You don’t want to keep John waiting if he’s upset with you.”

“Ah, he’s a big boy,” replied Hamilton, getting to his feet anyway. “Robust, I mean. But also tall. He’s gotta be at least six-two. Practically a giant.” He grabbed his coat, pulling it on quickly upon the realisation that he was actually excited to see him again. “Thanks, though. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Have a good evening,” Washington said, smiling as he watched Hamilton skip merrily out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the shade
> 
> and for the late update, Wednesday was optimistic. let's say mondays and Thursdays, see how that goes. Also if anyone wants to see a [really cute description of John Laurens ](http://scarlett-the-seachild.tumblr.com/post/174239582694/from-gregory-d-masseys-john-laurens-and-the) which i have been crying over for the past hour
> 
> I'm getting self-conscious about plot pacing, lol. i want things to be explorative and character-based but if ur getting bored then please like, give me a nudge


	6. Got It Bad - LEISURE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You like it, like it so bad 
> 
> aka. yeah this chapter is largely porn.
> 
> also tw for slurs and generally unpleasant language (SEPARATE from above ^^)

When Hamilton arrived at his apartment, Laurens did his very best to convey that he was still mad at him, while also still clearly wanting to have sex.

“Hey,” Hamilton greeted him, dropping his bag by the door. “Washington let me out early. He’s being very cool these days, I hope it’s not because he’s feeling sorry for us.”

“Maybe it’s his way of trying to be a good ally,” Laurens said dryly.

Hamilton laughed. “It could be, if he still paid me for the lost time,” he remarked. “Minimum wage is homophobic.”

He paused, looking at Laurens shyly as he tried to work out exactly how angry he was with him. His arms were crossed over his chest, his jaw tilted slightly upwards but it was much more of a power stance than anything genuine. Maybe he would get out of this without even having to discuss it.

“The survey results are on the table,” Laurens tipped his chin over his shoulder as he led the way towards his bedroom. “In case you’re interested in how many canteen frequenters have lactose intolerances.”

Or not.

“Thanks for doing that,” said Hamilton awkwardly, following him. “I know it wasn’t...exactly the sort of thing you’d rather have done. I’m sorry if you felt patronised.”

“I did feel patronised,” Laurens nodded. “It was demeaning. It made me look like I have nothing to offer.”

Hamilton cringed. He hadn’t thought of that.

“You know that’s not why I gave it to you,” he argued.

“No,” Laurens agreed. “You gave it to me because you didn’t want to put me on the frontline, where my dad might see me. Which is fine and all, only you could have done it in a way that didn’t make it look like my entire worth is dependent on him.”

“You’re right,” Hamilton said swiftly, taking a few steps towards him. “We should have talked about it first. You’re worth isn’t dependent on him – you’re brilliant. You have a lot to offer.” He hooked his fingers in Laurens’ belt loops, pulling him closer as he gazed imploringly up at him. “I was just trying to take care of you.”

The corner of Laurens’ mouth twitched. “You don’t have to give me an assignment to do that.”

Hamilton smiled, stomach curling in satisfaction at the proof of Laurens’ resistance beginning to slip. “I know.”

He pulled him forward, simultaneously standing on his tip-toes to catch his mouth. Laurens responded at once, kissing him fiercely and reaching up to tilt back his head with his hand. Alexander moaned, unable to stop himself at the feeling of Laurens pushing into his mouth, his tongue forceful as his hands went to cling possessively round his waist. His grip was hard, fingers digging into his hips in a way that would almost definitely leave a mark, so that Hamilton knew he was still a little pissed off with him and was glad about it.

“Get on the bed,” Laurens ordered, voice low.

Hamilton hastened to obey, tearing off his shoes and socks and flinging them into a corner.

“We haven’t,” he started, unaware of how to bring it up without making it awkward. “You know. Done the stuff since before the holidays.”

“We’ve done plenty stuff,” Laurens replied, taking off his shirt and dropping it onto the floor.

“Yeah but,” Hamilton lost his line of argument briefly as his eyes roved up and down Laurens’ long, toned body. “I want you to fuck me.”

Laurens was very aware of what those words did to him, however he wanted to keep some semblance of aloofness even as he bent to lick the shell of Hamilton’s ear. “You think you’re in a position to bargain?” he breathed.

Hamilton squirmed, as much at the gravel of Laurens’ voice as at the movement. “I’ll be in whatever position you want me,” he replied, toes curling slightly as Laurens took his earlobe between his teeth.

Laurens chuckled, releasing Hamilton’s ear to kiss his neck. “So good with words,” he teased. “But you can’t answer a simple question directly.”

“Sorry. What I meant was: please, daddy. I promise I’ll be good.”

“Ugh.” Laurens pulled away to frown at him disgustedly. “Do you want this to end? Is that what you want?”

Alexander worked to control his snicker, forcing his face into seriousness. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ll be good. Er, not in that way.”

Laurens rolled his eyes, leaning in to resume kissing his neck. Hamilton sighed, eyes rolling closed as Laurens moved up and down the soft skin, sucking just enough to make his breath come sharp. Hamilton curled one hand into Laurens’ hair, tugging a little in the way he knew he liked. Before he’d gone away for break, Hamilton had pulled it so hard and without warning Laurens had nearly come there and then. They hadn’t talked about it and hadn’t gone further in that line of thinking since; still, Hamilton was itching to see what other hidden strings Laurens would let him pluck.

“Take off your shirt,” Laurens told Hamilton, teeth grating against his collarbone.

Hamilton yanked it off in one motion, chucking it away from the bed while Laurens undid the front of his pants. He arched off the mattress to help him shimmy them off. Once Laurens had untangled them from around his ankles he pressed a hand against his chest, forcing Alexander back down as he kissed his stomach. He flicked his tongue into his navel and Hamilton gasped, quickly turning into a hiss as Laurens bit lightly at the skin just beneath it before sucking hard.

He was gritting his teeth, clutching the sheets desperately when Laurens suddenly sat up.

“What are you doing?” asked Hamilton, frowning slightly at the loss of Laurens’ mouth.

“Letting you make it up to me,” Laurens replied, undoing his own zipper.

Hamilton suppressed a flicker of frustration as Laurens took off his jeans, desire quickly replacing it at the sight of Laurens’ cloth-clad erection. His pulse quickened as Laurens reached a hand into his own boxers, head falling back as he gave himself a few quick strokes. He was very rarely an exhibitionist, much to Alexander’s disappointment, shy about his body and himself to the point of trying to hide it beneath sheets and dim lights. Now though his head was tipped back, eyes half-closed and mouth half-open as his hand moved beneath the fabric, apparently unaware of the show he was putting on. Hamilton had little time to enjoy it however as he soon stopped, reaching a hand out to cup Hamilton’s jaw. He ran his thumb once along his bottom lip, prising his mouth apart before reaching round to grasp the back of his neck.

Getting the message, Hamilton moved forward along the mattress until he was directly in front of Laurens, leaning in to run his tongue along the bulge in his boxers. Laurens tried hard to keep his breathing steady and controlled, fingering the tight curls at the nape of Hamilton’s neck to provide some distraction from the swiftly growing heat in his cock. He could not prevent a rumbling groan of frustration however when Hamilton sucked lightly at the tip through the fabric, blushing fiercely at the smug grin it prompted.

“Sorry, did you say something?”

Laurens glared at him. “Quit teasing, Alexander.”

“I’m kidding. I like it when you’re loud,” Hamilton told him, licking a stripe up his boxers once more before slipping his fingers beneath the waistband. “Lets me know you’re enjoying yourself. For such a hippie you’re awfully restrained.”

“For such a nerd you’re awfully abandoned.”

“Touché,” replied Hamilton, not wanting to kill the mood by pointing out that wasn’t his favourite word. He paused suddenly, feeling a little insecure. “Tell me I’m cute.”

Laurens laughed, perplexed and endeared. “You’re cute,” he assured him, patting his hair.

“Thanks,” said Hamilton. “You’re cute too.”

He rolled down Laurens’ boxers, taking the head of his cock in his mouth. Laurens sighed, the hand in Hamilton’s hair tightening subconsciously as a slow curling of heat crept up into his abdomen. He pushed his hips forward a little, wary of hurting Hamilton but he accommodated quickly, swallowing as much as he could and covering the base with his hand.

“Alex,” he breathed, the feeling of Hamilton’s warm, wet mouth going very quickly to his head.

At the sound of his name Hamilton moaned around Laurens’ cock, running his tongue along the shaft before swiping over the slit, tasting precum. He began to pump the base, listening as Laurens’ breathing became shallower and shallower, the hand on the back of his head forcefully pushing him down until it was difficult to draw off for breath. As uncomfortable as it was, Hamilton felt a thrill shooting through him at his immobility, liking at once Laurens’ controlling him while also being unable to control himself due to how badly he wanted it.

“Mmm, you’re so hot,” he gushed when Laurens’ hand was slack enough to move off. “Your body John, seriously. You should show it off more.”

“What and – make you jealous,” Laurens managed, head spinning as he tried to steady himself.

“I’m already jealous,” Hamilton replied, sliding his hand under Laurens’ thigh and up to cup his ass. “Cardigans or not.”

Laurens laughed shortly, turning into a choked-off moan as Hamilton swallowed his cock again without warning. The heat was pooling in his abdomen, to the point that Laurens knew he wouldn’t last much longer. Meanwhile the hand on his ass remained, firm and deliberate. The knowledge of it was enough to send the blood coursing through his veins, so urgent and loud that he thought it might send him crazy. He reached down, gripping his own base tightly as he only just managed to call out in time: “S-stop.”

Hamilton pulled off, gazing up confusedly as he wiped his mouth. “What?”

“Gonna come,” Laurens mumbled.

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “Uh…yeah?”

“I thought you wanted me to fuck you.”

“Oh!” Hamilton sat up, eyes wide with surprise. He ran a hand through his dishevelled hair, trying to come across as casual. “Sure. I mean, if you want.”

Laurens grinned at the flush beginning to spread across Hamilton’s cheeks. “Suddenly so uncertain, Alexander?”

“Shut up,” Hamilton muttered. “Have you got stuff? Or do we have to go and ask Tallmadge?”

Laurens stuck his middle finger up at him, getting up to rummage in his top drawer and returning with lube and a condom. Meanwhile Hamilton removed his boxers, dutifully turning over until he was laying on the bed, face propped against his arms as he looked over at Laurens in anticipation. His cock was already throbbing hard just from watching Laurens; he resisted rubbing off on the sheets as he came to sit down next to him.

Laurens poured lube onto his fingers, leaning close until he was laying half on top of Hamilton. Alexander gave a little moan at Laurens’ cock moving against his thigh as the mattress sagged with his weight. He worked to regulate his breathing as Laurens slipped his fingers into him, moving swiftly in and out and adding more lube before working him open. He was much surer than the first time they had done this, still Hamilton could feel his heart thudding wildly against his back and his fingers stuttered a little as he tried to get a rhythm.

“More,” Hamilton forced out, rocking his ass backwards onto Laurens’ fingers. “You’re going too slow.”

“I don’t wanna-” Laurens started then stopped, feeling foolish.

Sensing the unspoken words, Hamilton turned his head to offer Laurens a reassuring smile. “You aren’t going to hurt me,” he told him. “Promise.”

Annoyed and a little embarrassed that Hamilton was the one making promises in this situation, Laurens added a third finger, thrusting hard until Hamilton was gasping and moaning, twisting against the sheets. A patch of damp had appeared on the mattress beneath him; Laurens just had time to reflect that they should have lain a towel down before removing his fingers from Hamilton, working the condom quickly over his cock and managing not to drop it this time. When it was on he slipped one arm beneath Hamilton as he lined himself up, pushing in slowly to draw out the pleasure.

The moment he felt Laurens enter him Hamilton groaned, turning his face into Laurens’ arm and holding it tightly. Laurens held on until he was in entirely before thrusting, checking Hamilton’s expression before going any faster. Once he saw how desperate he was he began to draw back, snapping his hips hard against Hamilton’s ass, surrendering himself to the feeling of him around his cock. A powerful emotion was rising inside him, not just pleasure but something separate, more unnameable, cresting like a wave in his chest. He tightened his arm around Hamilton, hugging him close affectionately and burying his face in his hair.

Alexander’s face was squished against his arm, his voice muffled when he called out. “John,” he said, then tried to stifle his shout.

Laurens felt the mattress grow suddenly wet beneath his thigh, Hamilton’s body slackening in his grip. He gave a few more sharp thrusts, sloppily kissing the base of Hamilton’s spine as his own stomach lurched, only just stopping himself from squeezing the air out of him as he came with a long, drawn-out groan.

They lay there for a few seconds, panting heavily as they struggled to get their breath back. Then Laurens, wary that he was still practically crushing Hamilton, slipped out and forced himself up. He took off the condom, tying a knot before tossing it in the wastepaper bin, noticing as he did so the marks in his arm.

“You bit me,” he observed.

Hamilton shrugged, pushing himself into an upright position. “Not my fault,” he said, embarrassed at how he had tried to mask his orgasm after telling Laurens he liked him loud. “I didn’t get lunch today. I just want to eat you.”

Laurens laughed, chucking Hamilton a pack of wet wipes so he could clean himself up. “Speaking of lunch,” he said, pulling his boxers back on before turning back to face him. “Charles Lee said something weird in the canteen today.”

Hamilton pulled a face, as much at the words as the mess on the bed. “Wow. Way to kill a boner, my man,” he commented. “Good thing we already did it.”

“It’s about Washington as well,” said Laurens. “In case you were thinking about going again.”

“I really am going to pretend you did not just say that.”

“He said that a lot of people think the school is going downhill,” Laurens continued. “With all the Drayton stuff, and the way the media keep hounding. Not just idiots like him but real people, board members and trustees, etcetera. He said they think Washington’s losing his touch.”

Hamilton frowned, tossing his hair as he leaned back against his arms, looking for a second like a mermaid on a rock. “Lee’s been saying that shit since the invention of the wheel,” he said sceptically. “It’s all jealous bullcrap, doesn’t mean anything.”

“Ya, that’s what I thought,” Laurens nodded. “But then as I left he said, ‘keep an eye on the papers, Laurens’.”

Hamilton’s eyebrows shot up. “‘Keep an eye on the papers’?” he repeated.

“Ya.”

“What does that mean?”

Laurens shrugged. “Beats me,” he replied. “Doesn’t sound good though.”

“No,” Hamilton chewed his lip, furrowing his brow. “It doesn’t.”

He fell back against the bed, groaning tiredly and rubbing his hands over his face. “For fuck’s sake,” he complained. “I have way too much to deal with at the moment without worrying about whatever half-baked cabal Charles Lee’s planning.”

“‘Cabal’ might be a bit much,” Laurens joked, joining him back on the bed.

“To be honest, I’ve just kind of always wanted to say that word in context.” He huffed out in irritation, glance wandering over to the sheets. “We should have put a towel down.”

Laurens smirked. “On top of all the other dirty laundry.” He reached for his phone charging on the side-table, scrolling through his messages.

Hamilton allowed about three minutes of silence, mind mulling over what Lee might have meant before becoming distracted by Laurens’ thumbs dancing animatedly across the screen. “Who’re you texting?” he asked curiously.

“André,” Laurens replied without looking up. “He’s back in New York. We’re meeting up later.”

“Oh,” said Hamilton. “Like…later this evening, later?”

“Yeah,” answered Laurens, darting to attention at the tone of Hamilton’s voice. “Why? Did you wanna hang out here? I just assumed you’d wanna head off soon and study.”

“Ah, no. I mean, yeah,” Hamilton shook his head, trying to remember the words he was supposed to say. “Yeah, you’re right. I should head off.”

“You don’t have to,” Laurens insisted. “You can stay as long as you like. I can cancel on André, or you can come out with us. I just assumed.”

“Nah, I got a lot to do,” Hamilton told him. “Thanks, though. Say hi to him for me.” He hesitated, remembering the shirtless paintings of Lafayette in the art studio. “Are you gonna include him in your art project?”

Laurens hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” he replied. “Do you think I should?”

“Uh…” Hamilton cast around for a reply that wasn’t ‘no’. “Do you think you should?”

Laurens looked at him quizzically. “Why are you being weird?”

“I don’t know, dude,” Hamilton huffed, getting up to grab his clothes off the floor. “Maybe it’s because you fucked me so hard my brain’s all scrambled and now I can’t think straight.”

Laurens grinned, watching appreciatively as Hamilton began to get dressed. “I feel bad for kicking you out now,” he commented, eyes lingering on Hamilton’s torso as he slowly pulled on his shirt.

“It’s cool,” Hamilton assured him. “I know you just don’t want me taking all J’André’s attention,” he winked roguishly. “But nah, I really do have to study. Can I send you my draft paper later? Angelica and I just found out today Adams is marking them and not to be too egoistic but his life’s ambition is fixed on making my life miserable in particular.”

“Of course,” Laurens smiled, tilting his head to meet Hamilton’s kiss. _“Kwaheri,_ kiddo.”

_“Tutaonana baadaye,”_ Hamilton returned, ruffling his hair once before traipsing out the door. 

*

“Sorry about the prices,” said André, pulling a face as he gestured towards the bar. “I always come in here with Peggy, I forgot it’s only affordable if you buy like, five cocktails.”

“It’s cool,” Laurens assured him, paying for his beer and André’s. “You forget I’m friends with Lafayette.”

André inclined his head in acknowledgement. “True say,” he accepted, leading the way to a secluded table in the corner. “You should have seen him in Paris, he probably spent more than I have all year. Why didn’t you come, by the way?”

“I had to spend the first part of break at home,” Laurens explained. “So that I could head straight back after Christmas.”

André nodded understandingly, taking a sip of his beer. “Good?” he asked tentatively.

Laurens made an evasive gesture. “About as good as it could have been,” he replied. “My dad’s still pretty mad at me for the protest but he couldn’t be too much of an asshole around my relatives. We mostly ignored each other.”

André offered a sympathetic look. “You should hide out at mine,” he told him. “My parents were really horrified when they saw the news. They’re Europeans so they couldn’t stop going on about how fucked up race relations are in America. As if Europe doesn’t have its own share of problems.”

“Different flavour of racism, I guess,” Laurens said, trying to remember points Hamilton had ranted about and only coming up with words. “North versus South. Economic migration. Anti-Romanyism and poverty and whatnot.”

André raised his beer in a way which suggested that was about as much as he knew as well.

“Anyway,” he continued. “You should have heard them. My mom offered to represent you pro bono if you ever need a lawyer.”

“Isn’t your mom a commercial consultant?”  

“Yeah, but you try telling her that,” André grinned. “She also lives in London, so she’s all kinds of useless. They wanna help, though.”

“Thanks, but I’m all set on the…people trying to help me front,” Laurens replied, trying not to come off bitter. “I’m good, really.” He raised his beer to his lips, thinking quickly about a way to change the subject. “What about you? How was your break, anyway?”

André shrugged. “Good and bad,” he responded dully. “It was nice to get away. But uh, Peggy and Arnold got back together again.”

“I didn’t know they broke up,” said Laurens, surprised.

“Yeah, for like two days,” André huffed, cradling his beer in his arms. “She was crying to me on the phone for both of them, then after they made up not a word for the rest of the break. Not to be a Nice Guy or anything, but…I kind of…wish she wouldn’t.”

“I know what you mean,” Laurens assured him, remembering how he had felt before they’d gotten together, when Hamilton had whined constantly about André not noticing him.

“I’m not being unreasonable, right?” André persisted. “Like, I really don’t wanna be that guy. I want to be there for her when she’s upset. But is it so much to ask for the time of day when she isn’t? I feel like she’s dangling me on a string. Like I’m there when she wants me, just in case.”

Laurens tried hard to look sympathetic, and not like he was accusing André of being that guy. “You know what you should do,” he recommended. “You should date someone else.”

André wrinkled his nose. “Someone else?”

“Ya. You know. Like another person. Not Peggy.”

André looked distrustfully at him, like he was quoting fake news. “I don’t know about that man,” he said doubtfully. "I got it bad." He played with the label on his beer, chirping up suddenly. “Maybe I’ll experiment with my sexuality,” he joked. “Know any cute guys?”

Laurens winced. “I know you’re upset, but don’t do that.”

“Yeah fair enough,” André grimaced at himself. “Sorry.” He took another swig of beer. “You bagged the cutest one anyway. How’s that going?”

Laurens shook his head. “We don’t have to talk about me and Alex if you don’t want to.”

“No, I do,” André insisted, quite unconvincingly. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something which kinda concerns him.”

He picked up his phone, skimming through his photos until he had reached a series of screenshots before handing it to Laurens. “This blog Jefferson’s started,” he began, voice low and serious. “It’s turning into something. Something vicious. I was stalking a few of the people who commented on it, most of them are going by usernames rather than anything recognisable, which I found kind of odd. So I followed up on them and look,” he showed Laurens a screenshot of something that looked like a chat messenger board. “There’s some really nasty stuff here. And a lot of it is directed personally at him.”

“What is this?” asked Laurens, appalled as he scrolled through the messages. “Some kind of alt-right chatroom?”

“Actually, for the most part it seems to be made up of people who just really don’t like Alexander,” André replied. “The racism is more like an unpleasant side factor.”

“Jesus,” breathed Laurens, stomach deadening as the words _half-breed slut_ and _black fag_ jumped out of the screen. He was aware of the hand on the phone shaking, and had to give it back to André before he was overtaken by the urge to throw it across the table.

“I thought about taking it straight to him,” André told him, voice uncertain. “But I don’t know him that well and I wanted to see what you wanted to do first.”

Laurens’ own phone vibrated before he could answer. He fished it out, heart leaping into his throat upon seeing it was a text from Hamilton.

_AH: Thanks for the hip bruise, goes rly well w my paisley shirt_

_JL: soz. y r u matching shirts 2 ur bruises_

_AH: Procrastination_

_Hows J’Andre_

Laurens looked up into André’s face, chewing his lip and creased slightly with concern. He made a decision.

_JL: he thinks ur cute_

_AH: :O :O :O_

_omg day made_

_JL: i told u the same literally 1 hr ago_

_AH: Its different coming from him. He doesnt get anything out of saying it_

_I’m going to change my profile pic in celebration_

“So what do you think?” André prompted him. “Should we tell him?”

Laurens shook his head, slipping his phone into his back pocket before he could get embroiled in a text conversation.

“No,” he said thoughtfully, taking a swig of beer and setting it down sharply on the table. “No, I think we can handle it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> obvs a bruise is unlikely to come up that quick but artistic licence
> 
> next chapter Thursday!


	7. Casualty - Pional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you can dream all, you can feel all

“Thanks for the drinks,” André said as they closed the door on the warm bar and stepped out into the night.

“No sweat,” replied Laurens dismissively. “I owe you for those exhibition tickets anyway.”

“Oh yeah. That was so good.”

“It really was,” Laurens nodded, remembering the photographed narrative and how it had inspired him for his own piece. “I want to take Alex but he’s so busy at the moment. Plus, he’d probably be rude about it.”

André frowned. “Does he not like art?”

“No, he does,” Laurens clarified. “When he gets it. But he doesn’t have a lot of time for things that he doesn’t understand, and surreal or abstract stuff would probably annoy him. Also he needs to be rude about anything he doesn’t have a thorough and comprehensive knowledge of,” he paused, thinking he was maybe being ungracious. “He likes realism,” he elaborated. “Especially Russian. Ilya Repin is his favourite.”

André smiled amusedly. “Figures.”

They hung out for a second on the sidewalk, enjoying the night air and the slight chill after the stuffiness of the bar. Laurens rolled a cigarette and passed it to André, who accepted it with thanks. While he was rolling another one, he noticed a couple of guys staggering out another bar a little further down the street. Their voices were raised and slurred with drunken belligerence so it was practically impossible to hear what they were saying, still, Laurens couldn’t help but feel on edge by their presence as they tripped over each other, shouting swear words into nothing.

Noticing his tenseness, André followed his gaze. “Idiots,” he offered, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah,” Laurens forced, pushing past the lump in his throat and taking a drag of his cigarette. “So uh, what are your plans for tomorrow?”

André blew a stream of smoke into the air before replying. “I’ve actually got plans with your boy,” he answered, grinning when Laurens looked at him quizzically before clarifying, “Ben.”

 _“Tallmadge?”_ Laurens demanded incredulously, having rather gotten the impression that André was not his favourite person.

“Yeah, we’re starting a band,” André’s grin broadened in self-aware embarrassment. “Like we talked about at Mulligan’s.”

Laurens laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Wow,” he said. “You let me know when your EP comes out.”

“Yeah, that might take some time,” André pulled an apologetic face. “Ben only wants to record on vinyl, so.”

Laurens’ second laugh was choked off by a movement further down the street. Another group of guys, also drunk by the looks of it, had just come stumbling out of the darkness, making a beeline for the men outside the bar. They approached one another, hackles raised and flinging violent insults. Laurens felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as their shouts echoed off the road, each juvenile _Asshole_ and _Prick_ suddenly seeming weighty with threat.

“Hey, let’s get out of here,” said Laurens suddenly, rubbing his cigarette out with his toe.

André, who had been watching the dispute unfurl with a sort of detached contempt, looked at him. “Yeah sure,” he said, surprised at his urgency but following the brisk pace without complaint.

Laurens set off quickly, keeping firmly on the opposite side of the road and his head down. The atmosphere between the two had become more aggressive, their voices carrying now as if they were stood right next to them. One guy pushed another roughly by the shoulders, causing him to respond with an even fiercer shove. The initiator lurched forward, throwing a sloppy punch and catching the man on the jaw; suddenly there was chaos as the men seized one another by the torso, fists and knees thumping wildly as they scrapped. Opposite them Laurens froze, unable to take another step that would draw him nearer to the fight. Blood pounded in his ears, so loud it drowned out the grunts and curses. A sudden rush, like running water came crashing into his head and he swooned, grabbing onto André for support.

“Hey man,” André caught him before his knees gave way. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Laurens shook his head. A mistake, as his vision instantly began to swim. “’M gotta…” _Throw up. Leave. Call Alex._

“Shit,” André swore as Laurens doubled over still clinging to him, heaving onto the sidewalk. “Ok, ok, don’t worry, I’ve got you. Let’s get you out of here.”

He pulled up Laurens as best as he was able, struggling to keep both their balances. Laurens tried to focus on moving his feet, rather than the nausea in his stomach. His head was still spinning, everything coming at him in distorted pixels. The sound of the fight was fading behind him but he didn’t know if that was from distance or the throbbing in his eardrums.

“Someone’s gonna call the police,” he muttered.

“Yeah, don’t you worry about that,” André attempted to reassure him, throwing a look over his shoulder. “People are coming out to break it up now. Police should be here any minute.”

Laurens didn’t have the energy to tell him that wasn’t what he meant. The light from the streetlamps seemed to flash blue in front of his eyes – faintly in the distance he could hear sirens blaring. He gripped André’s arm tighter.

“I’m getting an uber,” André told him, free hand reaching for his phone. “Where do you wanna go? Back to yours?”

“Alexander’s,” Laurens managed, the word tumbling out his mouth before he had even thought about it.

“You got it,” said André. He tapped quickly, fingers flying across the screen. “You know the address?”

Laurens typed it in for him, hands shaking so violently it was a wonder he managed it. He passed the phone back to André who nodded encouragingly. “Four minutes away. You’re super good.”

They found a low doorstop outside a closed building. André sat Laurens down, jittering nervously on the balls of his feet and throwing anxious glances as he waited for the driver to arrive. Laurens put his head into his clammy hands, waiting for the world to stop spinning. The pounding had settled to a dull thud, until only nausea and embarrassment remained. He stared fixedly at his sweaty palms as André talked on the phone.

“Hey Alex,” André spoke, words tripping into each other in his haste. “Er…John’s not feeling so good. We’re on our way to yours now.” He turned away, speaking in an undertone and bowing his head, as if by doing so he could blot out what he was saying. “I don’t really know. Some guys were fighting and it sort of set off like, a panic attack I guess? I’ve never seen one before, so I don’t really-” he paused, glancing over at Laurens. “Like, two pints,” he replied. “I’m probably more waved than he is, to be honest. Yeah. Ok, sure. No man, don’t worry about it, I gotta get home anyway.” He looked up from the sidewalk as a car approached, flashing its headlights in attention. “I gotta go, the uber’s here. But yeah, I’ll see you in ten. Yeah, sure. In a bit.”

André put his phone away and walked back over to Laurens. He opened the car door, nodding encouragingly at Laurens to get inside as the the headlights flashed, turning molten a puddle next to the curb. “After you, man.”

*

Hamilton raced down the stairs as soon as he heard the buzzer go, wrenching open the door so forcefully that had he been bigger it might have done some damage.

“You said ten minutes.” He had meant it to sound reproachful rather than panicky, still he was aware of how high-pitched it came out.

“Yeah sorry,” André replied heavily. “John uh…wasn’t feeling the uber, so we walked here. I tried to call you but my phone died, and his wasn’t working properly.”

“Your phone’s still broken?” Alexander demanded, if possible even more shrill.

“It works most of the time,” Laurens muttered, pushing past him and heading straight for the stairs. “Thanks, John.”

“Anytime, John,” André replied, mouth twitching at the feeble attempt at humour.

Hamilton’s eyes followed Laurens up the stairs before switching back to André, lowering his voice urgently. “Tell me again what happened.”

André shrugged helplessly. “He was fine all evening,” he said. “We were just having a smoke outside when these guys down the street started yelling and pushing each other around. Just drunk dudes, you know. But Laurens got antsy and when a fight broke out properly he went sort of faint, almost collapsed. I called the car and he was fine while we were waiting, but when it arrived he didn’t want to get in.”

Hamilton felt the words more than he heard them as his mind flash-backed to the pressure of the crowd, Laurens’ hands being cuffed before he was wrenched off the ground and shoved unceremoniously through a police car door.

“He was a lot better while we were walking,” André finished.

“Thanks André,” said Hamilton. “Are you sure I can’t pay for the uber?”

André shook his head. “Seriously, don’t worry about it,” he said. “Let me know how he is, okay?”

Hamilton thanked him again and André left quickly, looking none too unhappy to be doing so. Hamilton closed the door, closing his fists tightly and taking a moment to steady his own pulse before heading upstairs.

Laurens was in the kitchen, examining the contents of Hamilton’s fridge when he walked in.

“All you have is orange juice,” he complained bitterly, despite unearthing half a loaf of pretty stale-looking bread.

Hamilton ignored him. “You need to get your phone fixed,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I told you, it works most of the time,” replied Laurens, cutting slices of bread roughly and tossing them into the toaster.

“Most of the time isn’t good enough,” Hamilton told him through gritted teeth. “I need to be able to contact you and know where you are, if things like this are going to happen.”

“What ‘things like this’,” said Laurens impatiently. “This is the first time. It’s not a ‘thing’.”

“Ok, well, you say that now,” retorted Hamilton, irritated with Laurens’ persistent habit of buttering his toast directly on surfaces and placing a chopping board in front of him. “But you don’t know if it could happen again.”

“It was nothing,” Laurens insisted. “I had too much to drink, that’s all.”

“You did not have too much to drink,” Hamilton stated bluntly. “I’ve seen you get through a bottle of JD like it was a hot fudge sundae.”

“You’re insulting my drinking habits now?”

“I’m making a _point,”_ Hamilton sighed. He hesitated, face softening as he looked at Laurens’, currently turned pointedly away from him. “What was it?” he asked gently after a while. “The shouting? The fight? The car?”

“All of it,” Laurens replied, setting his jaw firmly. “I didn’t…I don’t know why…it was like that. They were just some stupid drunk guys.”

Hamilton shook his head. “You don’t have to explain it,” he told him. “It can be anything. I couldn’t eat bacon for a really long time without getting sick.”

“You’re a vegetarian,” Laurens mumbled.

“Yeah, okay,” Hamilton rolled his eyes. “Really not the point.”

He took a knife off the countertop, digging it subconsciously into the surface. Laurens followed the movement, eyes on the sharp point as it sank into the wood. Outside the city rumbled, raised voices battling to be heard over the sound of cars and dogs barking. Laurens shut his eyes briefly, remembered where he was.

“Why couldn’t you eat bacon?” he persisted after a long time had passed.

“Because…” Hamilton huffed, really not expecting to have to get into this now. “My dad burnt it, and it stank out the whole house and there was an argument and he threw the pan at the wall and it burnt my brother and then he left.”

“Jesus,” said Laurens automatically. He tried to picture it in his head, see what Hamilton saw whenever someone forgot to close the kitchen door properly. “Was he hurt bad?”

“Just his arm,” Hamilton clarified. “Look, it doesn’t matter. We’re talking about you.”

“We don’t have to be,” said Laurens. “I didn’t even know you had a brother three days ago.”

“We’re talking about _you,”_ Hamilton repeated, setting the knife down and looking at Laurens fiercely. “All I’m saying is, I know panic attacks. They suck. There’s no need to be embarrassed about it.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” said Laurens defensively.

Hamilton’s retort was lost by the popping up of the toaster. Laurens attacked the butter with unwarranted aggression, forgoing a plate in favour of eating directly out his hands. Hamilton suppressed the urge to snap something about crumbs and exited first out the kitchen, leading the way to his room.

“This is the first time this has happened?” he asked, stepping aside for Laurens to enter and closing the door behind him.

“I already said so,” Laurens replied with his mouth full.

“But you’re sure?” Hamilton prompted him. “It doesn’t have to be the exact same thing. Like, you don’t have to feel like fainting each time. But is there anything else which…brings it back?”

Laurens was silent for a long time, focusing intently on chewing his toast. Hamilton was beginning to marvel how he could possibly have had an appetite at this time of night, let alone what had transpired, before he spoke again.

“So I’m not crazy about sirens right now,” he said, a little savagely. “Or crazy drunk assholes pushing each other around late at night. Or cops or, come to think of it, guns. Wow. There sure must be something wrong with me.”

“I never _said_ there was something wrong with you,” Hamilton started, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. “I told you. I _get_ it. It used to happen to me a lot when I was a kid.”

“Yeah, well I’m not a kid,” Laurens snarled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and making for the bathroom. “So it would maybe help if you stopped treating me like one.”

He shut the door and locked it before Hamilton could reply. Swearing loudly, Hamilton picked up a textbook from his desk and flung it at the wall. It bounced off and onto the bed. He dropped his head in his hands and followed suit, collapsing onto the mattress and wrapping his arms tight around his waist, willing himself not to cry.

A few minutes later Laurens re-emerged in one of his stolen basketball jerseys, his hair and face damp from washing it. He flicked out the light and dropped onto the bed next to Hamilton, curled up in a ball with his arms around himself. At first he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling; then finally, he turned over onto his side, curling his arms around Hamilton and drawing him close against his torso. It was a very decisive action, more of a statement than anything natural, and for a few seconds they lay stiff and awkward against each other. Then Laurens sighed and relaxed, draping his thigh over Alex’s and moulding his hips to his ass, bending forward to nuzzle his hair. He smelt of mint toothpaste and soap. Hamilton eased into his embrace, accepting the heat which was swiftly becoming as familiar as the erratic beating of Laurens’ heart, thudding against his back through his basketball jersey.

After what might have been a long time, or might not, Laurens fell asleep, forehead dropping against the back of Hamilton’s neck, leg still hooked possessively over him. Not wanting to disturb him, Hamilton reached carefully for his phone where it lay on the bedside table. He had a few unopened messages from Lafayette and Mulligan; he ignored them in favour of sending another quick thank you to André. Laurens’ hips were insistent against his ass; he could feel the outline of his cock pressing against him, as well as himself steadily becoming aroused. Chewing his lip, he debated who to text, as much to take his mind off it as anything else. It was then he saw he also had an unread message from Eliza.

_ES: Which would be fine, except I don’t know how Lady Catherine would feel about dogs in the house. She might run away_

_AH: it should be fine if they’re puppies. At worst cats just ignore them, or treat them with disdain_

_ES: I don’t want her to treat them with disdain :( I want her to be like a wizened old aunt full of stories of her youth and helpful advice_

Hamilton laughed quietly into Laurens’ arm, remembering how he had bitten it just a few hours ago.

_AH: Lol. she’ll get used to them. If you wanted her to be approachable u shouldn’t have made her a member of the aristocracy_

_ES: Oh no. Do you think they’ll be intimidated??_

_AH: Absolutely. Ive met Lady C and she made me feel bad for not bowing_

_ES: She knew you were a tomcat!_

_AH: :O mean_

_ES: <3 _

_Joking she loves you. She purrs whenever she hears your name_

_AH: Ur a flatterer Schuyler. talk about me a lot in your house do u?_

_ES: All the time. You’re very missed_

Something tugged in Hamilton’s chest. He snuck a guilty look at Laurens, as if worried he might catch something incriminating.

_AH: i miss your parents too_

_ES: You should come round for dinner more! Both you and John :)_

_AH: thanks but I’m not sure how well John would handle a social situation in a wealthy white home that wasnt his own_

_Btw something happened tonight_

_ES: What?_

Hamilton hesitated, not having meant to type the words and unsure how he felt now that he had to explain them. But picturing Eliza, frowning with concern in her Harry Potter pyjamas and he suddenly felt buoyed to continue.

_AH: John was out with Andre and some dudes on the street got into a fight and he had a panic attack and nearly fainted_

_ES: Oh my God. Is he alright? Should I call?_

_AH: no its fine. He’s here now so uh ya deffo dont call lmao_

_But uh he couldnt get into the uber. So yeah._

_ES: God. Poor John._

_How is he doing now?_

_AH: shit. Not that he’ll admit it_

_i dont know how to help him. Every time I try he bites my head off_

_He says he’s fine and I think he is except this happens so like he clearly isnt??_

_Idk ur the psychologist fix it explain_

_ES: I’m really not. I do sociology for starters_

_AH: That’s closer than econ. and ur good at this stuff, ur an excellent therapist for me_

_ES: Mmm. Not really sure I should be though_

_AH: Nah u should. Fosho._

_Plus Schuyler kinda sounds like a therapist-y name_

_ES: Isn’t that linguistic determinism?_

_AH: OH HO HO_

_Using my own tools against me ARE WE_

_ES: You act like all we do in sociology is talk about Trump_

_AH: i mean_

_i never said that_

_ES: You really didn’t have to. But back to John. It sounds like he’s putting on a brave face_

_AH: mmyeah. I guess so._

_I dont know what to do. He doesnt want me making a big deal out of it but then i feel like it makes it worse if I just ignore it_

_I feel like im doing everything wrong_

_ES: It just takes time. You haven’t been together long. You don’t know each other that well yet_

_AH: Mmm._

_Its weird_

_I feel like he could know me better than anyone in the world and also nothing about me whatsoever_

_ES: You’re very selective with what people know about you_

_AH: You would be too if u had my crummy personality and specific taste in blazers_

_ES: No one has said crummy since 1949_

_AH: See there you go. The last novel I read was Catcher in the Rye, that should rly tell you something. you know what I bet thats John’s favourite book im gonna ask him when he wakes up_

_all of that repressed sexuality and private school shenanigans_

_ES: You know you’re making this much harder than this needs to be_

_AH: I feel like thats maybe become a habit_

_ES: You just need to be nice to him. It’s really that simple_

Hamilton stared at the words on the screen for so long they started to dance in front of him. For some reason, they made him feel worse than anything else had that night. He turned his head as much as he could to look at Laurens. His mouth was slightly parted in sleep, and there was a deep line between his eyebrows. He looked like was disputing something. Hamilton ran his finger along the inside of Laurens’ wrist before answering.

_AH: Who gave u the right to be so wise. you’re younger than me_

_ES: I am OLDER than you!!_

_Also the wisdom of Grace shines through me :)_

_AH: God I love you_

Hamilton hesitated before pressing send and deleted it.

_AH: Damn. need me some of that_

_ES: On sale half price at Target_

_It’s so late! Do you need me to stay up, Alex?_

Hamilton smiled, affection crashing into his chest so powerfully he thought it might knock him down.

_AH: no sweetheart. Get some sleep I’ll see u later_

_ES: Ok! Goodnight sleep well xxx_

The online button went dark. Hamilton switched off his phone, and the last light went out.


	8. Coffee - Sylvan Esso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sinner ends a saint with a pair of feet change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! i had a big weekend. Also thank you to everyone who's commented so far - not to sound like a beg but it really helps to know people are actually reading this! i love writing it but it is a lot so please do let me know if you're reading and enjoying <3

_1 year ago_

“Well that’s bullshit,” Hamilton stated bluntly. “First off, you’re making the assumption that all kinds of investors interpret the same information in the same way when finance is just as subjective as fine art. You can’t just put a blanket statement on everything and say that all the available information is reflected, therefore the stock is accurately valued.”

“Not everyone has your seemingly comprehensive knowledge of the future, Hamilton,” Adams replied boredly. “For those of us who aren’t clairvoyant, EMH means that stock can be considered correctly assessed until a future event changes that valuation. Therefore it is far more sensible to undertake passive, broad strategies, owning a wide swathe of stocks and profit from the general rise of the market.”

“That is deliberately ignoring all the investors who have consistently beat the market by searching out irrational prices,” Hamilton argued. “Just look at Warren Buffet, for Christ’s sake. He didn’t become a billionaire by purchasing a ‘wide swathe’ of pointless stocks for the hell of it, he used his damn brain and looked for inconsistencies within the overall market.”

“Now who’s using a catch-all?” asked Adams, raising an eyebrow. “Granted, Buffet’s success story is impressive, however, you are talking about a case study from the late 1950s. For most people in the modern investing environment, EMH remains relevant. Fama was never arrogant enough to suppose his hypothesis would be efficient a hundred percent of the time; it is for this reason EMH does not give a strict definition of how much time prices need to revert to the norm, only a fair estimation. Now, might I resume teaching my class, or is there another example you’d like to drag up from the dustbowl of the Great Depression?”

Hamilton seethed as he fell back into his chair, curling his lip and crossing his arms over his chest. While Adams had turned back to face his PowerPoint, Angelica leaned in close to whisper to him: “I agree with you, by the way.”

“Obviously you agree with me!” Hamilton waved his arms, not particularly troubling to lower his voice. “Just consider the whole fucking range of returns attained by the entire _universe_ of investors…if no one had any clear advantage over another, how can you account for the difference in the industry-”

“-I just _said_ I agree with you,” Angelica interrupted him tiredly. “You don’t have to preach to the converted.”

“Right,” Hamilton sighed, tapping his pen irritably across the back of his hand. “Sorry.”

He continued to tap his pen, shaking his leg violently underneath the desk until Angelica laid a gentle hand on his knee.

“Sorry,” said Hamilton again, blowing out a breath and lifting his gaze to the ceiling. “I feel like I have kind of a lot of pent-up energy.”

“That wouldn’t have anything to do with the three espressos you downed on the way over here?”

“Maybe,” Hamilton shrugged indifferently. “Also, I haven’t had sex in a while. Not since Kitty let me down.”

Angelica pulled an appropriately sympathetic expression. “Sorry about that,” she patted his arm. “I did warn you.”

“I know you did,” replied Hamilton self-pityingly, rubbing his face with his hands. “My fault for not listening. Could you maybe do me a favour and find out what it is? I have a feeling she doesn’t like the mullet which…like…I’m not saying I’m willing to _change_ but I could maybe _think_ about toning down-”

“I would,” answered Angelica, a little stiffly. “Except we aren’t exactly on speaking terms at the minute.”

Hamilton looked up, blinking at her in surprise. “Really?” he asked, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “How come?”

“I’m not…a fan of how she treats people,” Angelica replied carefully. “Like they’re disposable. Not just boys, but her friends too. She’s been doing it since high school. Anyway, we were talking about you and I kind of took your side, told her that it wasn’t right to play with people like that and it turned into this big thing. So now she isn’t talking to me.”

“Shit,” said Hamilton, guilty but not quite able to suppress his surprised joy that Angelica had sided with him. “Wow. Thanks for taking my side. I’m sorry if I screwed things between you two.”

“It’s alright,” Angelica shook her head. “It was a long time coming.” She leaned back in her chair, yawning as she stretched. “If it’s any consolation, Jonny’s still in England. So I’m willing to bet I haven’t had sex in even longer than you.”

“Okay, well, just saying,” Hamilton pointed out. “There’s a way we can fix both our problems.”

Angelica scoffed, refusing to take him seriously. “I didn’t say I wanted to _cheat_ on him.”

“Who said anything about cheating? Leave him for me. Come on Ange,” he grinned wickedly, recalling one of the last conversations he’d had with Kitty. “You said yourself it sounded like I was better in bed.”

“Paraphrased!” Angelica retorted, blushing fiercely. “And taken _totally_ out of context!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Hamilton’s grin didn’t falter as he took in her blush, nudging her playfully with his elbow. “Why not? We’d be great together. You and me, the smartest kids on the course. We’d be fucking unstoppable.”

“This is just your ploy to get back at Adams, isn’t it?”

Hamilton was robbed from answering by Adams, turning back round to snap at them to be quiet.

The bell rang. Hamilton suppressed his instinct to get out of the classroom as quickly as possible in favour of waiting for Angelica to pack up, tapping an impatient rhythm on his thigh. Once she had shouldered her bag he flew for the door, holding it open for her and throwing a last angry look at the back of Adams’ head.

“Asshole,” he muttered under his breath. “He’s the exact kind of theorist I hate, you know. Always static, scared of change. Refusing to see the bigger picture beyond the sphere of his own conservative vision.”

“He values safety,” Angelica pointed out, texting idly. “Stability. There are worse things.”

“Yeah, but not at the expense of choking the economy,” Hamilton retorted. “It’s not safety when it’s self-suffocation. Or when he refuses to consider any point of view that isn’t stuck in the eighteenth century.”

He huffed out a breath, running a hand self-consciously through his hair as if Kitty was still on his mind. “What are your plans for lunch?” he asked Angelica.

“I said I’d meet my sister,” Angelica replied, slipping away her phone. “She just told me she was on her way over…oh, there she is.”

She waved. Hamilton followed the direction until he caught sight of a dark-haired girl standing on her own by the entrance, dressed in an old-fashioned blouse and a long skirt that fell below her knees. Noticing Angelica she waved back, her smile widening as they drew nearer.

“Hey,” Angelica greeted her, pulling her into a quick one-armed hug before gesturing at Hamilton. “Alex, this is my sister Eliza. Eliza, Alexander.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Hamilton politely, taking in the similarities and differences between them. Eliza wore her hair in two French braids tied with blue ribbons. Combined with the Victorian blouse and skirt she looked like could either have stepped out of a vintage thrift shop, or an anime.

“Angelica’s told me a lot about you,” said Eliza, the two exchanging amused glances.

“Oh come on, that’s not fair,” Hamilton protested, observing the interaction. “I’ve only just met you and already you two are ganging up on me?”

“It was good things,” Angelica assured him. “Mostly.”

“A lot of good things,” Eliza agreed as they fell into step. “She said you were very smart, and funny.”

“Oh. Well. Thanks,” said Hamilton, blushing with pleasure. “Did she tell you I’ve beaten her in every paper this semester?”

“I think that might have slipped her mind,” replied Eliza, poking Angelica teasingly.

“A technicality,” Angelica rolled her eyes, slipping her arm through Eliza’s. “How was class?”

“Okay,” Eliza replied airily. “We have to do presentations by the end of next week and I’m really not looking forward to it.”

“What do you do?” asked Hamilton interestedly.

“This is for Psychology,” Eliza explained. “But I think I’m going to major in Sociology.”

Hamilton nodded. “Sociology’s cool,” he said. “I was thinking of taking it as an elective but I had to switch it out for Political Theory. Do you have to do Durkheim and people?”

“Ugh, yeah,” Eliza pulled a face. “Our entire first week was on _The Division of Labour,_ it took me so long to get through. We’re doing Marx now though, so it’s a lot better.”

“It’s a hefty boy,” Hamilton agreed. “Marx is great. Well. In the ‘Alexander’ sense, rather than in that I agree with what he says. I like Marxism but more as an academic framework than as a way of structuring society. I respect it a lot, though. I’m a critical capitalist,” he informed Eliza. “With liberal socialist tendencies. Free market with increased taxation, federalism, and whatnot.”

“Like Bill Clinton,” Angelica commented dryly.

“I like Marx,” Eliza agreed, ignoring Angelica. “I bet you like Jürgen Habermas.”

“Haha yeah,” Hamilton grinned at her. “He’s my fave. Along with Foucault and Said, obviously.”

“Oh, me too. Said was one of the reasons I wanted to come to Columbia, actually.”

“Yeah? Same here. Have you read-”

“Okay as fun as this _is,”_ Angelica cut across him impatiently, causing Hamilton to realise they were stood outside the café. “I was actually planning on eating this afternoon, rather than listening to you guys name-drop.”

“Do you want to get lunch with us?” Eliza asked Hamilton politely.

Hamilton shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ve got some reading to do,” he replied, jerking his thumb in the direction of the library. “It was nice to meet you. Catch you later, Ange.”

“Bye,” said Angelica curtly, steering Eliza speedily into the café.

 

_AH: So ur sister seems nice_

_AS: DO NOT ALEXANDER_

_AH: ?? what???_

_AS: I KNOW WHAT YOURE THINKING AND I AM WARNING YOU DO NOT_

_AH: Who says im thinking anything?? I just said she seemed nice!_

_AS: Exactly 3 hrs after telling me that you hadn’t had sex in a while_

_AH: i wasnt going to SOLICIT her. I was just thinking of maybe asking her out for coffee sometime_

_AS: And you expect me to believe that?_

_AH: wtf Angelica do u think im a fuckboy or something_

_AS: I don’t think you’re a fuckboy. But I think you get through them_

_AH: So ur calling me a slut_

_AS: …Not a slut_

_AH: then WHAT_

_AS: …_

_A tart with a heart?_

_AH: jfc_

_AS: I’m just saying Eliza isn’t like you. You wouldn’t be a good fit. She’s shy and very monogamous_

_AH: im monogamous when monogamy is the deal. And shy isnt a bad thing, it’s cute. Plus wdu mean not a good fit? she was sweet and pretty. Kind of like a nicer version of u_

_AS: And equally out of your league_

_AH: …_

_Hold up what_

_U don’t think im good enough for her?_

_AS: Hey, come on. I didn’t say that_

_AH: You literally just did. Omg thats it isnt it. U dont think I’m good enough for either of you_

_AS: Alex what the hell. Why are you making this about us?_

_AH: Dw im not. And u dont need to worry about me tryna ask u out anymore either_

_AS: Omg Alex don’t be like this. I was kidding_

_AH: dw. Anyway i have reading talk to u later_

_AS: Alex come on, I didn’t mean it_

_Really I was kidding_

_I’m sorry_

_Alex?_

*

_Present Day_

Hamilton woke up to Laurens half rolling on top of him, eyes fluttering open moments before he was crushed.

“Hey,” Laurens grinned sheepishly, pulling Hamilton close to him. “How did you sleep?”

Hamilton bobbed his head non-committally. “In pieces,” he replied, slinking his arms around Laurens’ neck. “What about you?”

“Well, actually,” Laurens replied, hesitating before mumbling embarrassedly. “I always sleep better over here.”

Hamilton smiled, flattening his palm to rub up the side of Laurens’ neck. “Guess you’ll just have to stay here then.”

Laurens grinned back. He leant down to kiss him, long and slow and warm. Hamilton sighed into it, body melting against Laurens’ as his arms encircled his waist, drowsy but peaceful, like he was kissing away the memory of the night before.

“You want coffee?” Laurens asked as he released him, pushing himself off the mattress. “When do you have to leave for class?”

“Soon,” Hamilton replied, checking his phone. “But yeah, coffee would be great.”

Laurens went over to fill up the kettle. Meanwhile Hamilton yawned and stretched himself upright, clicking out the tenseness in his muscles from being curled up against Laurens all night. His phone was flashing with morning messages from Eliza checking up on him; he turned it flat on its front, feeling guilty for reasons he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“Here,” said Laurens, handing him his mug. He hesitated, taking a moment to steel himself. “Listen, thanks for letting me crash here. I’m sorry I was crabby. What happened was just kind of…scary…and I’m not the best at dealing with stuff outside of my comfort zone.”

 _I’ve noticed,_ Hamilton restrained himself from commenting dryly, instead waving dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, I’m just glad you’re feeling better. Sorry I wasn’t more helpful.”

“You were plenty helpful,” Laurens shook his head earnestly. “I slept, didn’t I?”

Hamilton thought that this possibly had more to do with exhaustion resulting from a physically draining panic attack than anything he had to do with but said nothing, taking a sip of his coffee. For some reason the cheap, chemically instant sachets he kept in his drawer always tasted better when Laurens made it. He really needed to find out his secret.

Laurens crept back in beside him and for a while they drank their coffees in silence, Hamilton scrolling absently through his Tumblr and Laurens his SoundCloud. The window was slightly open and Laurens felt a breeze escape through it, lifting a curl of his hair with the leaves on the trees outside. There was something about the early morning in Hamilton’s tiny, untidy dorm, with the high-pitched whistling from his mug as the condensation hung against the ceramic and the steam curled into the cold room that made him feel quiet and calm. Maybe it was the relief after the storm of the night before, giving his blood a chance to cool like morning air over a finally still sea.

Maybe it was the coffee.

“Ugh, I gotta go,” Hamilton pulled a face at last, sliding off the bed and grabbing random items of clothing off the floor. “9ams should be illegal.”

“Why are you getting dressed in the bathroom?” asked Laurens, amused as Hamilton made for the en-suite. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked.”

“Yeah but,” Hamilton blushed, caught off guard. “I don’t know. It’s different.”

“Didn’t think you were the self-conscious type,” Laurens smirked, leaning back against the headboard and remembering Hamilton’s exhibitionism at Mulligan’s party. “Are you embarrassed, Alexander?”

“No,” said Hamilton truthfully. He liked his body a lot. Admittedly, a natural aversion to the gym meant it wasn’t as ripped as Laurens’ but still, it was nice. He had heard the reviews™. “It’s just weird. I don’t know. Everything should be read in its context.”

“Alright weirdo,” said Laurens as Hamilton flipped him off.

He closed his eyes, hearing the running water from the tap and the splash of soap as Hamilton washed his face. “What time are you going in?” asked Hamilton, words muffled around a mouth full of toothpaste. “Do you wanna come in with me?”

“Sure,” said Laurens, even though he didn’t have anything until the afternoon.

Hamilton reappeared moments later, fully dressed and hair slightly damp around his face. He smiled brightly at Laurens, chucking his shirt at him.

“Your hair looks nice,” Laurens commented, pulling on the shirt and his jeans.

“Thanks,” said Hamilton, grabbing his keys and bag. “I know you’re one of those freaks who eat breakfast but I don’t have anything since you ate all my bread last night. Except orange juice, as you very accurately pointed out. It’s the kind with pulp. No worries, we can get something on the way. I’ll even eat with you so you don’t feel lonely, although you might have to finish it. What’s that they say in Gone With the Wind? Oh yeah. I eat like a bird!”

“How are you so chatty at this hour?” Laurens asked, grinning at him with amused affection.

 “I don’t know. I have a lot of energy in the mornings. It depletes throughout the day,” Hamilton replied, tapping out an anxious rhythm on his thigh. “Gotta keep it fuelled with caffeine, and interesting source material. Are you ready? Let’s go.”

He held the door open for Laurens, making sure it was locked properly before waving at him to follow down the stairs.

“By the way John,” he said as they reached the building’s exit. “What was your favourite book in high school?”

“Uh,” Laurens wracked his brains, working a little slower than usual in response to the unexpected question. “Probably a _Separate Peace._ Or, I don’t know. Maybe _The Catcher in the Rye_. Why?”

“No reason,” replied Hamilton breezily, squeezing Laurens’ hand briefly as they stepped out into the sunshine.

*

“It says ‘queynte’,” Tilghman explained, tapping the word on the page. “Not ‘quaint’. It’s a pun meaning ‘clever’ or ‘elegant’ but also slang for, you know.”

“I do not know,” said Lafayette confusedly.

“You do,” Tilghman insisted, voice bordering a little on exhaustion. “It sounds similar in modern English.”

“Oh?” Lafayette frowned, eyes widening as comprehension dawned. “Oh!”

“There you go,” Tilghman rolled his eyes as Lafayette clapped his hands delightedly.

“That is very clever,” Lafayette nodded appreciatively. “Or should I say, ‘queynte’.”

“Wagwan,” greeted Hamilton, strutting into the Comparative Lit common room as if he belonged there. “What’re you guys doing?”

“Alexander!” said Lafayette, seizing his chance immediately. “You are very queynte!”

Hamilton’s brow creased as he inspected the cuffs of his tweed blazer. “I mean, I got this in a charity shop,” he frowned. “I guess it does possess a certain vintage whimsy, but I wouldn’t have used ‘quaint’ to describe it.”

“It means ‘clever’ and ‘elegant’,” Lafayette explained, showing Hamilton his copy of _The_ _Canterbury Tales._ “Much like you.”

“Oh. Thanks,” said Hamilton, bending down to squint at the text. “‘Queynte’. Nice. I’ll remember that.”

“De rien,” smirked Lafayette.

“How’s it going?” asked Tilghman swiftly, before Hamilton could notice Lafayette hiding his snigger.

“Not so bad. Here, do me a favour and hide a load of these from Laurens when you get a chance,” he told Lafayette, dumping a pile of magazines on the table.

Lafayette picked one up. “‘I Want the Fairytale’: Hamilton’s Courting Police Trouble”, he read off the front page before frowning over the top at Hamilton. “‘I want the fairytale’. What does that mean?”

“It’s a quote from _Pretty Woman,”_ Hamilton replied tiredly. “That’s right, folks. The day has finally come when Jefferson is able to live out his sexual fantasies by comparing me to a prostitute.”

“What the hell?” said Lafayette, appalled as he flickered through the article. “What is this? This isn’t politics. He is just making you out to be an attention-seeking whore for ten pages!”

“Does he actually use those words?” inquired Tilghman, leaning in for a closer look.

“Paraphrased,” Lafayette clarified. “But look. There is nothing in this except slut shaming!”

“One does wonder where a man gets off,” Hamilton agreed. “Looks like Jefferson’s shifted his tactics from reasonable discourse to just trying to discredit it me as a reliable voice. Using age-old sexist rhetoric, apparently. Honestly my pride is much less bruised than my masculinity, which I guess is sorta the point. Whatever, don’t let Laurens see them.”

“This is so dumb,” Tilghman waved the article disdainfully. “I can’t see Laurens or anyone paying it in any mind.”

“Then you don’t know Laurens,” replied Hamilton bluntly. “But that’s not what I meant. Like ‘Hey, how about I write a piece about how Hamilton’s great in the sack and has a lot of sex! That’ll show ‘em!’ Nice goin, TJeffs. Can’t see _that_ backfiring in the slightest. He might as well have stuck a label on my back saying ‘Legend’. But no. Aside from the weird wish fulfilment there’s kind of a lot about the protest and me courting police violence for attention and I don’t want a reoccurrence of last night, so-”

“Hold on,” Lafayette frowned, holding up his palm. “What happened last night?”

“André didn’t tell you?” asked Hamilton.

Lafayette shook his head. Hamilton hesitated, glancing apprehensively at Tilghman who, well attuned to knowing his place by now, said “Toilet,” before getting up.

“Gotta love Tench,” said Hamilton, watching him walk away appreciatively. “That guy really knows how to take a message.”

“Tell me,” Lafayette prompted him urgently, slapping him on the hand.

“John saw some guys having a fight last night,” Hamilton explained in an undertone, looking down at his fingers. “And it triggered a panic attack, or something. He’s okay now,” he added hastily as Lafayette looked stricken. “He was up this morning all bright and dandy. But I just want to keep anything that might upset him as far the fuck away as possible.”

“John had a panic attack?” repeated Lafayette, running his hands distressedly through his hair and sounding almost tearful. “My God. My God, my God, I should have been there! Fuck!”

“Hey, come on,” said Hamilton awkwardly, taken aback at how upset Lafayette was. “It’s not our fault. We weren’t to know it was gonna happen.”

“We should have seen signs,” Lafayette insisted. “That he was putting on a face. That he wasn’t fine. We should have made him talk, or at least see someone-”

“No,” Hamilton put his foot down. “We were right not to push him. Besides, he _is_ fine. These things happen, it’s just the brain’s way of making sense of harmful shit. Anyway, forewarned is fore-armed. At least we can be on guard in case it happens again.”

Lafayette gave him a long, scrutinising look, one word having registered with him in particular. “Fore-armed?” he repeated questioningly.

“Yeah,” Hamilton blinked innocently. “What?”

“Interesting turn of phrase.”

“Not really. You know me. Always throwing words around. Only sport I do in fact, except squash sometimes. And chess.”

“You warned me against doing Comparative Literature,” Lafayette reminded him, suddenly suspicious. “I am beginning to think it was so I wouldn’t be able to read through your _lies.”_

“No. It was so I wouldn’t have to deal with you telling me Geoffrey Chaucer’s rhyme scheme still serves an efficient purpose in the modern working world.”

“What are you _planning,_ Alexander?” Lafayette demanded, eyes still narrowed as though he could peer into his soul. “What are you _hiding?”_

Hamilton squirmed, uncomfortable under the intensity of Lafayette’s gaze until he was unable to take it any longer.

“Alright fine!” he snapped, lip curling. “I’m trying to dig dirt on the cops who jumped Laurens so that I can offer it as evidence at the Curtis' trial.”

Lafayette gaped at him, mouth working in stunned disbelief as Hamilton sat with his arms crossed over his chest and chin tilted away from him, trying to avoid his gaze.

“That is so dumb!” he exploded at last, waving his arms over his head. “Dumb! Dumb! Stupid and dumb!”

“It’s not dumb, it’s ‘queynte’,” Hamilton replied, getting up to leave as Tilghman re-emerged. “I kill two birds with one stone: helping the Curtises win their case against the NYPD _and_ those bastards get what they deserve. Clever and elegant.”

“Stupid and dumb,” insisted Lafayette, staring up at Hamilton uncomprehendingly. “You can’t – you can’t – you can’t singlehandedly take on the NYPD!!”

 _“You’re_ stupid and dumb,” snarled Hamilton, shouldering his bag. “And don’t tell me what I can’t do.”

He left the room, just stopping short of slamming the door behind him. Lafayette glared after him before shaking his head and re-lowering it to the _Tales._

“Yes? Well you are a queynte,” he muttered, furiously returning to his homework.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: Chaucer is fun, i do eng lit and Alex is a snob
> 
> apologies for the super long flash-back, I'm aiming to keep them short but this one was necessary for Plot Purposes
> 
> NB. Bill Clinton was originally "Tony Blair" because...well...i am british and lets face it they are more or less the same person, but if u like me also had to spend a few years of ur life living under the same blood-soaked liar than by all means substitute him in. Clinton does work better in Ham's case because of the sex scandal but i still feel like Blair woulda if he coulda


	9. Rare Happiness - Hunee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw violent language and slurs, also drug use (nothing major and for comedic purposes but still)

“Sorry, sorry,” Laurens muttered, squeezing past the several people in his way as he wove towards the front of the audience.

“What took you so long?” Mulligan asked, holding out the seat he’d saved for him.

“I was…distracted,” replied Laurens, running a hand through his hair. Distractedly. “I haven’t missed anyone, have I?”

“Nah, they haven’t started yet,” Mulligan gestured towards the maze he had just clawed through. “Beth’s at the bar, do you want anything?”

“I’m good bro,” Laurens shook his head, taking out his phone. “I’m off drinking for a bit.”

Mulligan raised an eyebrow, surprised and sceptical. “John Laurens off drinking?” he repeated dubiously. “What else? Did Lafayette suspend a social media account? Did Hamilton quit Staples?”

“Ok, since when did my drinking become a meme?”

“It’s less a meme than a kind of sad given.”

“Ok,” Laurens huffed in annoyance. “Ok, that’s good to know.”

“I’m kidding dude,” Mulligan bumped him on the shoulder with his fist. “If I thought it was a problem, I would have said something by now.”

Laurens grunted, thumbs tapping absently at his phone as he sifted through the links André had sent him. After much coercion and brow-beating he had finally relented to giving up the usernames of those who had commented less pleasantly on Jefferson’s blog, as well as the URL to the chatroom. It made for pretty hideous reading, still, his righteous fury and lust for retaliation was a great channel for taking his mind off the other stuff.

“Here we go,” came Beth’s voice from behind him; he looked up to see her holding a beer and a rum and coke. “John baby, I’m sorry, I didn’t get you anything-”

“Laurens is off drinking,” Mulligan told her, accepting the rum and coke and patting her arm reassuringly. “Pour quoi, by the way?”

Laurens waved dismissively. “It’s no big deal,” he answered. “I just had a weird experience when I was out with André last night so I’m gonna give it a rest for a while. Also I don’t know if anyone’s told you but drinking’s kinda bad for you, bro. Makes you fat and all.”

“So just do more cardio.”

“How about cardi- _no?”_

“They’re starting,” Beth cut across them, already clapping.

“Hellooo and WELcome to the FIRST. JAWDANCE. EVENT. OF. THE. Mooonth,” the long-haired thirty-something adjusted his glasses so that they were appropriately balancing on the edge of his nose. “My name is Platonius-”

“James,” muttered Laurens, still tapping at his phone. “Your name is James.”

“-And I will be at the helm of the voyage we shall take tonight, across the turgid and tumultuous seas of divine creativity,” James continued. “First however, if you will permit me, I shall begin proceedings with a little something I wrote just now, as I was refilling the napkin dispenser.”

“Does he know what ‘turgid’ means?” Laurens demanded irritably. “Also, has anyone ever told this place that ‘Jawdance’ sounds a lot like ‘jaundice’?”

“Will you shut the fuck up,” Mulligan hissed at him.

Laurens shut the fuck up, but didn’t listen or even look up once while James was reciting his poem, which was called Ode to Something and began with an invocation of a muse. Scrolling to the very top of the messenger board, which uncannily enough had started around the same time that Jefferson’s blog post had first come out, he saw that André was right. The chatroom was less a meeting point for alt-right sympathisers than specifically anti-Alex. Although much of the diatribe was racist and sexist in tone, the main agitators seemed to be people (men) who had a personal grievance against him – often due to having been beaten in something academically, but most frequently because of a girl.

_> dumb bitch prefers a half-breed 2 100% pure American. fuck her stupid slut_

_> thousand yrs evoltion cant stop em wonting our women. just goes 2 show u can take one out the jungle but dosnt change the stripes_

_> both Hamilton and the dumb skank deserve 2 b shot lmao_

“This is incel,” Laurens murmured to himself, recognising the language of shameful insecurity. He caught sight of Angelica’s name a number of times, as well as Eliza’s and Kitty Livingston’s on top of a number of others he didn’t know. He wondered briefly how many girls on campus Hamilton had in fact “stolen” from lonely predators; he pushed the thought to the back of his mind.

The bell rang to signify the end of Platonius’ five minutes, not that Laurens heard it. He paid no attention to the girl who followed him nor the poets who came after her, so fixated he was on the messages. The chatroom used some sort of weird code that made it practically impossible to find unless you already had the URL and none of the usernames were recognisable. Still, there had to be a way to link them to individuals on campus.

“What the hell are you doing?” asked Mulligan as the room broke into applause once more.

“What?” Laurens’ head darted up and he remembered to clap. “Oh, right. Well done Kevin. Good job buddy, gotta love those ones about your lizard.”

“Are you texting Hamilton?” Beth frowned. “Tell him to stop liking my Instagram posts from 2015.”

“Uh no,” said Laurens thoughtlessly.

“Are you texting someone other than Hamilton?” Mulligan demanded. “Because if you’re talking to someone else, I want to know about it. I’ll kick your ass for his honour, I don’t give a shit.”

Laurens didn’t reply but returned his attention to his phone, resuming screenshotting. There was a lot of talk on the chat about what they’d like to do to Hamilton and these girls, but nothing concrete. He wondered if he ought to go directly to the police but couldn’t imagine them doing much about it. Maybe laugh in his face, tell him this was a matter for Pastoral. The idea made his stomach contract. Should he go to admin? They’d probably say it was an outside matter, unless he could prove who these people were.

“Laurens!” Mulligan barked at him.

“Huh?” Laurens looked up and put his hands together. “Great work, Sandra! Love the ombre!”

“No, moron. You’re up.”

“Oh. Right.” Laurens got to his feet, nearly tripping as he made his way over to the microphone. He cleared his throat, squinting deliberately at his phone screen instead of the number of faces turned expectantly up at him. Despite having done this a couple of times now, he still couldn’t suppress the shocks of nervous energy he got whenever he stood on stage. He couldn’t explain why it was so different to the familiar comfort of DJing – only that the deck was a barrier between him and the knife whereas up here he was carved open, all his insides displayed.

“Uh, this is a poem I wrote about the person I’ve…um…started dating recently,” he cringed despite the crowd’s supportive “whoop”, the words sounding awkward and clumsy when spoken out loud. “Let me just…find the fucking thing…” He fumbled with his phone, swearing as he kept coming up with screenshotted messages, the violent words leaping out the screen and knocking him off kilter. “Here it is. Right.”

He pressed play on the song he had queued up, holding it close to the mic. He closed his eyes a second, taking slow breaths and tuning himself into the gentle beat before taking the dive, speaking over the music:

“You are like a fire spirit,  
leaping from the pages of books I used to read as a child. Fearless in your stride, you singe the paper,  
revel in the smoke.  
Little demon, I could cup you in my hands,  
feel you against my palms like the curve of a coffee cup,  
Could hold you in my stomach, keep a fire burning all winter  
if I didn’t think you’d cling to one of the branches in my ribs,  
start something I couldn’t finish.  


It’d take more than rain to dampen you,  
More than pain to clamp you down,  
Even when my rivers run to ice,  
and we end up burning each other.  


 You’re a flame I can’t help but hop around,  
Cos if you’re light then I’m sound  
and it’s hard to keep honesty  
within a scorched-earth policy  
and as far as I run, I’ll never outrun you.  
Keep your words, your singed pages will keep me warm enough.  
Keep revelling in smoke, I don’t mind if it chokes me.  
It’s enough to see your glory,  
even if it burns me out.  


Thanks,” Laurens finished lamely, re-fixing the mic into its original position and ducking his head as he jumped off the stage, so that he wouldn’t have to face the applause.

He took a long drink from Mulligan’s glass as he sat back down, conscious of his cheeks burning and staring fixedly at a spot above his head.

“Um…wow?” said Mulligan questioningly, once the cheers had died down. “That was…a lot?”

Laurens shrugged. “Yeah, well,” he ran a hand over the back of his neck, feeling it was scalding. “I have…a lot.”

“Clearly,” Mulligan commented, raising his eyebrows. He paused a moment before asking, “Have you read it to Alex?”

Laurens snorted. “Are you dumb?”

Mulligan pulled a face. “Fair point,” he said, moving his drink away from Laurens and taking a sip. _“I_ barely know how to process that.”

“It was lovely,” Beth reassured him. “I’m sure Alex would love it.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” said Laurens bluntly.

“No, he wouldn’t,” Mulligan agreed.

“Well _I_ loved it,” Beth glared at Mulligan who spread his palms in self-defence. “And I really liked how you did it over the music as well. Why don’t you bring some of that into your set? Do some of your poetry over the top.”

“What,” Laurens frowned. “Like MCing?”

“Sure,” Beth nodded.

Laurens and Mulligan looked at each other. Mulligan shrugged. “Could be dope,” he suggested just before his attention was robbed again by the stage. “Oh hey, look. It’s Pit-Stains Joe.”

“Aw man, I love Pit-Stains!” Laurens crowed, rising a little in his chair to join in with the applause.

“You boys are inhibited,” Beth rolled her eyes superiorly, crossing her arms over her chest as the next poet took the mic.

*

“It’s stupid and dumb,” Lafayette spoke furiously, half into his phone and half into his hand. “He thinks that just because he made it from an orphaned home into one of the best universities in the country with more or less no help, and later into a national newspaper, that he can do whatever he likes.”

“In his defence, that is very impressive,” Adrienne replied fairly.

“It has given him false wings!” Lafayette insisted. “What happened to Icarus, Adrienne? What happened?”

“I don’t know Lafayette,” said Adrienne tiredly. “I thought it was Red Bull that gave you wings.”

“He flew too close to the sun and the wax melted,” Lafayette explained. “Then he was sent plummeting into the ocean.”

“Oh! Like Lucifer,” supplied Adrienne before promptly singing _._ _“Pour ceux qui sombrent avec Lucifer, les flammes, l'enfer.”_

“Now is not the time for Les Misérables, mon coeur!”

“Mon cher, it is always the time for Les Misérables!”

Lafayette thought about this for a second before relenting. “D’accord. It may be you are right. Nevertheless, the point remains – this time, Alexander is taking on more than he can chew. That is an American expression, the portions here are very large.”

“I remember,” said Adrienne. “I could not finish my pancakes.”

“I do not know what he is hoping to achieve,” Lafayette continued fiercely. “I was watching the news this morning – there was a forest fire in California. He is like that; out of control, burning everything in his path. I cannot tell whether there is any method to it, or if he just likes the smell of smoke.”

“Oh, but he is doing it for John, isn’t he?” asked Adrienne.

“He is doing it for vengeance,” Lafayette corrected her. “I am not sure how much John has to do with it.”

“I don’t think you are being fair, Gilbert,” Adrienne said, and Lafayette could hear the frown in her voice. “You said yourself John is not good at being looked after. Perhaps this is all Alexander feels he his is able to do. Maybe this is for him, but not in the way you are thinking. He is acting out of helplessness, not out of…what is that word that you like?”

“Hubris,” Lafayette supplied promptly.

“Hubris,” Adrienne agreed.

Lafayette was quiet while he mulled this over, mindlessly rubbing his finger along his bottom lip. Loathe as he was to admit it in his current fury, what Adrienne said did make sense. “You are so wise,” he sighed. “And smart, and beautiful. It could be that I am projecting my own anger with myself onto Alexander, who does not deserve it.”

“Why are you angry with yourself?” asked Adrienne softly.

“Because I was not there!” Lafayette replied, voice teetering on the urge of breaking. “After John told me about…about his high school experiences I promised myself I would be there for him if something ever were to happen and it did and I _wasn’t.”_

“You can’t blame yourself for that,” Adrienne told him, her voice gentle. “You were not to know. What’s important is that you are there for him now.”

Lafayette took a deep breath, steadying yourself. He wiped the back of his eyes. “You are right, chérie,” he told her. “As always.” He sighed, upset now for an entirely different reason. “I love you and I miss you.”

“I love you and I miss you too,” Adrienne replied, and Lafayette knew she was smiling. “But now I have to go to bed. Goodbye, Gilbert. I will speak to you in the morning!”

“Of course, it must be late for you,” groaned Lafayette, frustrated at having been caught out once again by the time difference. “Bonne nuit, mon coeur. Sleep well!”

Adrienne hung up. Lafayette groaned again, dropping his head onto the table. The common room was mostly deserted apart from a few people working studiously in the corner, still, he didn’t care who was to see him. His heart felt heavy, like it belonged elsewhere and was trying desperately to get back. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that Adrienne was sat next to him, stroking his hair and singing “Don’t you fret” soothingly into his ear.

“Everything all right over there?”

He opened his eyes, caught off guard by the unexpected voice and even more so when he realised who it had come from. Jefferson was standing in front of him, his expression an ironical mix of concerned and amused.

“What’s it to you?” asked Lafayette, lip curling contemptuously.

Jefferson shrugged. It was a heavy movement, on account that he was wearing what looked like a canvas sack. It was the kind of garment Laurens would have picked in a charity shop, although judging by the way Jefferson was wearing it, probably cost more than the room they were sitting in. Lafayette wished he knew where these rich people got off on trying to dress like they weren’t. At least his clothes were honest about it.

“Just checking in,” Jefferson replied casually. He put his bag down next to Lafayette. “Mind if I join? I like to be close to the window.”

“A little bit, yes,” answered Lafayette. “But I suppose…what is it you people are always saying? ‘It’s a free country’.”

Jefferson chuckled, as if at a private joke. “That it is,” he inclined his head concedingly. “For now, at least.”

Lafayette narrowed his eyes as Jefferson took the chair, swinging very long legs like a spider. “That was ominous,” he observed.

“I just meant your friends seem bent on wanting to turn it into North Korea,” Jefferson explained. He paused before adding, “Or Europe.”

Lafayette’s mouth worked in furious indignation. “That is…Europe is…” he sputtered. “That is completely…the two are not in the least…do you even _know_ how many countries there are in…”

He stopped upon realising Jefferson was grinning.

“Oh I see,” Lafayette leaned back boredly in his chair, suddenly very done with the entire conversation. “You are trying to be funny.”

Jefferson waved his hand imperially, as if he were forgiving a fault. “Not very successfully, clearly,” he said. “In all honesty, I’m a huge Francophile. It’s a wonderful country, I’ve been looking for a chance to talk to you about it for quite some time.”

“Oh. Well that’s a shame,” replied Lafayette haughtily. “Since I do not want to talk to you.”

“May I ask why not?”

“Because you write mean, petty things about my friends!” replied Lafayette fiercely.

Jefferson burst out laughing. Taken aback, Lafayette blinked at him frowningly, disliking the turn the interaction was taking and even less the fact that there were no trusted witnesses around. He didn’t think he’d ever engaged with Jefferson without Hamilton nearby, and then it was only to nod fiercely at whatever Hamilton was yelling.

“My lord,” said Jefferson, wiping his eyes melodramatically. “You sure are a character.”

“I am not a ‘character’,” said Lafayette resentfully. “I am Lafayette. And I don’t see anything funny about the dangerous lies you are spreading around in your awful magazine.”

“‘Dangerous lies’,” Jefferson wrinkled his nose like something smelled bad. “I’m just writing a side of the story that deserves to be told. Our liberty depends on the freedom of the press, after all.”

“Oh, so now you are going to tell me that you don’t believe any of your own garbage,” said Lafayette sceptically. “And that you are merely doing a public service.”

“On the contrary,” replied Jefferson smoothly. “I stand by what I’ve written. True it might be somewhat… _embellished_ for the sake of readership, but. I’ve known Hamilton for a long time. He’s like one of those soldiers who need war to thrive because peace confuses them. Or a prisoner who’s been in the slammer too long and can’t adjust to freedom. He craves battle, and when there is none he creates his own. I don’t think it’s too far-fetched to say that race relations in this country would be much easier if there were less firebrands like him around.”

Lafayette opened his mouth to retort and closed it when he realised he had nothing to return this with. Jefferson smirked, an expression so maddening he cast wildly around for something to throw at him. “You called him a white saviour,” he settled on at last.

“Alright, I’ll admit the language was inflammatory,” Jefferson conceded. “But I was trying to draw attention to his hypocrisy. You think he’d get away with so much if he was a shade darker, and his GPA not so high?”

“Higher than yours,” said Lafayette promptly.

Jefferson shrugged. “Whatever. I’m just here for a good time,” he drummed his fingers on the surface of the table. “People need to learn not to take things so seriously. As for saying ‘mean things’ about your friends, Hamilton and I have been doing the same dance since freshman year. It’s a strictly professional attack, trust me.” He grinned suddenly, displaying very white, and curiously pointed teeth. “He needs the fight, so he needs me. We’re like Batman and the Joker.”

“I always thought the Joker had a crush on Batman,” said Lafayette whimsically.

Jefferson chose not to hear that, looking absently out the window for a moment before turning back to Lafayette.

“Anyway,” he said, with the air of one looking to change the subject. “Are you gonna tell me what you were moping about when I came in? Might help. I’m a real good listener.”

Lafayette struggled desperately to keep his aloofness. But the wave of homesickness was overpowering, so much so that he felt if he didn’t talk about it to someone it would consume him. He sighed, feeling the walls of his resistance crumbling. “I miss my girlfriend,” he confessed. “Adrienne. She lives in France.”

Jefferson looked sympathetic. “That’s rough,” he said. “Y'all been together long?”

“Six years this September,” Lafayette answered instantly with a nod.

Jefferson let out a low whistle. “My,” he replied, lifting his hand in an imaginary toast. “Credit to you. Long distance sucks, I remember when my girlfriend moved with her family to Australia for six months. It sounds dumb, but it was one of the hardest times of my life.”

“It doesn’t sound dumb at all!” Lafayette shook his head ardently. “It is like a piece of yourself is missing permanently.” He paused, looking around nervously before leaning in to whisper something he had never spoken before out loud. “There are times when I am not even sure if we will make it,” he confessed.

Jefferson shook his head. “You will,” he said confidently. “Just talking to you I can tell that y'all are the thick and thin type.” He added jokingly, “You could always make it official and put a ring on it.”

“Oh, marriage is definitely on the cards,” nodded Lafayette. “Perhaps in a year or so.”

Jefferson’s eyes widened as he realised Lafayette was serious, although he recovered quickly. “Where would you have the wedding? Paris?”

“Haute-Loire,” replied Lafayette. “It is where I’m from.”

“Ah, l’Auvergne! Beautiful country up there. There’s a great little boulangerie I’ve been dying to get back to, I wonder if you know it…”

*

Hamilton knocked on the door of Laurens’ apartment and waited patiently, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet. A moment later and it was opened a crack, a sliver of Tallmadge appearing through the thin gap.

“Hey Ben!” Hamilton waved.

“How did you find me?” asked Ben suspiciously.

Hamilton frowned at him. “We’re friends, Ben,” he said. “This is your apartment.” He hesitated, wondering if he had gotten so deep in work he had knocked himself into an accidental coma, and more time had passed than he’d realised. “I’m dating your roommate,” he reminded him.

Tallmadge widened the door just enough for Hamilton to shimmy through. Once inside, the reason for Tallmadge’s paranoia suddenly became very clear.

“Alexander Hamilduuuude,” André greeted him from the couch, raising a lazy hand which seemed to get stuck in the atmosphere as he was then unable to budge it.

“Hey André,” Hamilton returned, sliding out his coat and hanging it on the peg by the door. He nodded at the small plastic bag of mushrooms laying on the coffee table. “I see the music’s going well.”

“There’s a lot of energy in this room,” Tallmadge told him warningly. “Please try not to disturb it.”

Hamilton nodded very seriously. “I will try.”

Tallmadge nodded back. He staggered over to the other couch where his keyboard was laying and pushed experimentally at a couple of notes while André stared at him, mouth hanging open in awe. Hamilton huffed, shoving his hands frustratedly in his pockets. Sensing his irritation, Tallmadge lifted his head up and gave him a long, slightly glazed look.

“John isn’t here,” he told him.

“Yes I am,” said André, eyes widening with fear. “I’m right here, can’t you see me? Shit, what’s happening? Dude, dude I’m right here!”

“Not you André,” Hamilton said reassuringly. “The other John.”

“Oh,” said André. “Yeah, he’s not here.”

“Actually, I wanted to see you,” Hamilton told Tallmadge. “But I guess you’re not in the mood for discussion, huh? No worries, I’ll just hang out and do some work here for a bit. Make sure you don’t eat your keyboard, etcetera.”

Tallmadge however was looking at him distrustfully. “You wanted to see me,” he repeated doubtfully. “Why?”

Hamilton sighed. This really was a conversation that could have done without a third party. Not taking into account however many spiritual entities were present.

“Your friend from home’s visiting soon, right?” he went ahead. “Abe Woodhull?”

Tallmadge’s eyes narrowed even more suspiciously. “Yeeaaahhhh,” he said, drawing out the syllable.

“Am I right in thinking that his father’s a magistrate?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this schedule thing is going super well huh lmao
> 
> As you can probably tell, i recently started doing Spoken Word semi-seriously. i'm very insecure about my poetry though so just pretend it was way better irl and some reassurance that it isn't completely terrible would be much appreciated


	10. When We Are - Nubya Garcia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ya like jazz?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw more mushrooms

“Hey look,” said Beth, pointing as they stepped out the open mic venue into the street. “Isn’t that your friend?”

Mulligan and Laurens both looked up and towards the direction she was pointing. Sure enough Meade was standing outside a 7/11 just a short distance away, texting idly on his phone. Mulligan hollered and waved.

“Yo, Dick!”

Meade’s head jerked up. Catching sight of the others he seemed to stiffen, his small wave a mechanical rather than friendly movement. As they drew nearer he forced a smile, but it seemed to Laurens rather tense and unsure.

“Hi guys,” he greeted them, eyes flitting towards the 7/11. “Whatcha doing here?”

“Open mic night,” Mulligan replied, nodding at the building they’d just exited. “Laurens did a really weird poem.”

“Mulligan stole an entire verse from the Wu-Tang Clan.”

“Incorporated,” countered Mulligan.

“That sounds great,” said Meade unhearingly, glancing once again at the store.

Catching the movement, Laurens felt his curiosity burgeoning. He gestured at the store. “You waiting for someone?”

“Uh,” said Meade uncertainly, just as the door opened and Angelica stepped out with a packet of potato chips.

“Ready?” she asked Meade, slipping her arm through his before realising who he was speaking to, and slinking it immediately back out. “Oh!”

Her cheeks coloured instantly. It was this rather than anything else that Laurens found interesting. Apparently noticing nothing Mulligan let out a crow of delight, throwing an arm around her shoulders.

“And Ange!” he exclaimed joyfully, moving out the way so Beth could hug her. “What are you guys up to?”

“Actually, we were just, gonna-” Meade gestured hopelessly, staring at Angelica for a lifeline.

“We just bumped into each other on campus,” Angelica supplied. “On the way back from separate journeys.”

“Yeah, and then she was hungry.”

“Yeah, and then I wanted chips.”

“So I said I’d come with her.”

“He kept me company.”

Mulligan nodded with polite interest along to the story, faint bemusement settling across his brow as they ended looking at each other sheepishly. Unable to withstand the second-hand awkwardness, nor the desperate appeal on Meade’s face, Laurens stepped in.

“Company is nice,” he offered. “Especially at this time of night.”

“It is,” Angelica agreed, nodding earnestly.

“Well, what are you guys doing now?” asked Mulligan. “Night’s still young, let’s go somewhere. Is the Jazz Café open?”

“Last entry 11.30,” replied Beth, checking her phone.

“Let’s go there.”

Mulligan draped his arms around Angelica and Meade, barrelling them forwards before they had a chance to protest, despite their less than enthusiastic expressions. While the other three started an animated conversation about hip-hop and its relevance to spoken word poetry, Laurens fell into step beside Angelica.

“It’s weird that campus is so big,” he commented. “But you always end up meeting people you know. I remember after I stopped hanging out with those guys in first year, I still had to deal with the awkward conversations each time we bumped into each other.”

Angelica gave him a look that said she sensed Laurens was playing a game, even though he wasn’t. “Alright, so we were planning to meet up,” she said, voice stinging and defensive. “You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

“I wasn’t!” Laurens stared at her reproachfully. “Honestly Angelica, I was being serious. I don’t care what you do.”

Angelica scoffed. “I find that hard to believe,” she replied. “When all of you seem bent on following my every move.”

“I… _really_ don’t think anyone cares that much,” said Laurens, recalling one conversation where Mulligan had asked “Anyone know what’s up with Meade and Ange” and Tallmadge had responded: “Who cares?”.

“What about Hamilton?” asked Angelica, raising a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Ok, yeah. Hamilton’s a busy-body,” Laurens conceded. “You know how he is. He just likes to feel involved.”

“I _do_ know how he is,” Angelica muttered, mostly to herself, before readdressing Laurens. “Do me a favour, and don’t tell him.”

“Why would I tell him?”

“You tell each other everything.”

Laurens laughed out loud. Angelica looked at him in shock and bemusement.

“Sorry,” Laurens cleared his throat. “Inside joke. I won’t tell him, but Hercules could always mention it.”

Angelica shook her head. “He won’t,” she replied confidently. “Hercules has my back.”

“What, and I don’t?” demanded Laurens, hurt.

Angelica hummed non-committally. “You’re a boys’ boy,” she replied after some time.

Laurens frowned at her, confused and insulted although he didn’t quite understand the accusation. “Are you calling me gay or anti-feminist?”

Angelica smiled amusedly. “Neither,” she said, in a way that was probably meant to be reassuring. “Just that you know where your loyalties lie. You run with a wolf pack. It’s not a bad thing.”

“You’re calling me anti-feminist,” Laurens huffed touchily.

“Oh my God,” Angelica rolled her eyes impatiently. “You and Alexander are both impossible. If you want to take it that way, you can. It’s not what I’m saying.”

“You wouldn’t call Alexander a boys’ boy,” said Laurens accusingly.

Angelica smirked, as if at some secret knowledge. “No,” she admitted. “He is most definitely a girls’ boy.”

This hardly served to make Laurens feel any better, and he wasn’t sorry to see Angelica turn away to talk to Beth.

Despite Meade’s protestations that it was too far, the Jazz Café was an easy walking distance away. By the time they arrived the queue was already quite long; Beth and Laurens headed directly to the front without a backwards glance, shaking hands with the bouncers who all seemed inexplicably thrilled by their arrival and hurried to shepherd them inside. They waved at the others who followed them in, the waves parting as easily as if they had been on a guestlist.

“Sure does pay to know you guys,” said Mulligan wryly, putting an arm round Beth’s waist and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“I think I’ve only ever played here once,” said Laurens, glancing ruefully around the space. “Yo, listen to that. Mulligan, hey. Ya like _jazz?”_

“I like this,” replied Mulligan, gesturing towards the stage where a mixed woman with her long hair in braids was playing the saxophone. “Who is it?”

“Nubya Garcia,” Beth replied informatively. “She’s up and coming in the UK.”

“Oooh the UK,” said Meade, rolling his eyes and apparently increasingly resentful about being here. “That means something different to normal.”

“She’s the bomb,” Laurens confirmed. “I can’t believe I didn’t know she was playing tonight. Fuck, and I love this song.”

He practically ran onto the dance floor, Beth and Mulligan sharing an amused glance before following. Laurens knew they probably had a joke lined up about his taste in niche jazz and pretentiousness but he didn’t care, he was already enjoying himself so much. The melody was passionate but slow, crashing over the cymbals in the background like lazy waves over rocks. The crowd moved along to it with a sort of blissful abandon, utterly unselfconscious, and the saxophonist on stage played the same way – celebrating in the pure delight of her music as though she had completely forgotten the crowd was there. Laurens closed his eyes and tried to tap into that freedom, the untethering release music always brought him that sliced through the rope binding him to this earth, and all the problems that came with it. His gaze shifted towards the pianist as Nubya broke off for breath. Watching his hands fly across the keys he found himself wishing, as he always did at his happiest, that Alexander was here.

“Laurens is a really good dancer,” Angelica said to Meade, watching him thoughtfully. “I wonder if he knows it.”

“Mmm,” hummed Meade, wondering if there was a way he could get Angelica to dance with him without overstepping a boundary. He scanned the floor, looking for a gap in the crowd away from the others when one face in particular leapt out at him.

“Um, guys?” he said slowly, not quite believing it. “Who the FUCK is that?”

“What?” Laurens spun around hopefully, having been thinking so hard about Hamilton that he half-expected to see him there. His hopes were dashed however upon seeing that the boy in question was white.

“That’s Andy Drayton,” Meade gripped Angelica’s elbow. “Am I going crazy, or what the fuck?”

“Drayton’s _here?”_ demanded Angelica, the name causing Mulligan to whirl round.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Why are you shouting?”

“That’s Drayton!” Meade jabbed his finger in the direction, voice bordering on the edge of hysterics.

“Are you sure?” asked Laurens, stomach dropping as he sensed the imminent departure of his fleeting happiness.

Mulligan perched on his tip-toes, a pointless movement considering he was already taller than most people there.

“Fuck, you’re right,” he said through gritted teeth, his face grim. “That is him.”

“He can’t be here,” Meade insisted. “This is _our_ space. I don’t give a fuck how gentrified jazz has become.”

“He needs to get out,” Beth agreed, touching Mulligan lightly on the shoulder.

Mulligan nodded, setting his jaw and leading the way through the crowd. Laurens followed diligently at his heels, disappointment and dread crashing together in his chest at the promise of yet another altercation. He looked wistfully towards the stage where Nubya had just finished the number and was about to begin another, wondering if there would ever be any space for them now that was completely free.

Mulligan stopped in front of Drayton, who was standing near the side with his friends. He put a hand on his arm; civil and deliberate, yet somehow still threatening. “Andrew Drayton?”

Drayton started, eyes widening fearfully as they took in Mulligan, Meade and Laurens standing before him. He was somewhat ferrety for a footballer, reasonably-built and only a little shorter than Laurens, but still nothing compared to how he had pictured him.

“What the hell do you want?” he barked. Laurens heard the money in his voice as clearly as if he’d called for hired guard.

“You’re trespassing,” Mulligan told him in no uncertain terms. “You’re not welcome here, and you need to leave.”

Drayton turned to his friends and laughed. It was thin and high and did very little to disguise the anxiety creeping in at the edges.

“Do you own this place, or something?” he fired at Mulligan. “I’m a paying fucking customer. What right do you have to tell me to leave?”

“It’s not a crime to be white,” his friend butted in. “This isn’t ‘coloureds only’, or why is _she_ allowed,” he jerked his head at Angelica, and then at Laurens. “Or _him?”_

“I’m fucking black,” snarled Laurens, temper rising.

“When it suits you,” said Drayton cuttingly.

“You don’t even know me,” Laurens started forward but was held back by Mulligan, placing a hand on his chest.

Mulligan jerked his thumb at Angelica. “She’s allowed in,” he said, then pointed at Laurens. “He’s allowed in.” He gestured at the many white people dancing in the audience. “They’re allowed in. You are _not.”_

“We’re not fighting people,” Meade said, with an uncertain look at Laurens. “But if you don’t get out now, we might be forced to draw attention to your being here. I doubt many will be as tolerant of your presence once they hear who you are.”

“Threaten all you want,” Drayton hissed. “Unless you three fucks want to deal with the consequences of jumping me down a dark alley, then face it. I’m fucking untouchable.”

“We don’t need to take you down a dark alley,” scowled Laurens. “Your name’s enough. You better walk home with a bodyguard.”

“We don’t have to resort to that,” said Mulligan calmly. “We don’t want any fuss. Just for you to leave.”

Drayton and his friends looked at each other uncertainly. Despite their brazen words the fear was there – Laurens saw it dart between them like a live thing. He didn’t know whether it was a response to the situation or something more deeply, instinctively embedded – a something that had to do with standing in the shadow of three very tall black men. Before he could chase the thought away Laurens was reminded of the protest, the potential for violence that had propelled them forward and had only been intensified by the stalemate. It sat so at odds with the smooth music and joyful dancing it was disorientating and somehow all the more urgent, like at any moment the illusion would snap, and hell would break loose.

“There he is. That one.”

Heads whipped round to see Beth pushing her way through the crowd, flanked by two of the burly-looking bouncers who had been on the door. She pointed at Drayton, showing them a matching picture on her phone. Their faces hardened as they approached him, gripping his shoulders in a much less diplomatic way than Mulligan had done: “Let’s make this easy.”

Drayton licked his lips feverishly, casting about wildly for support before slumping and allowing him and his friends to be steered forcefully away. One of the bouncers stayed behind and after checking there would be no trouble, turned to Beth.

“We’ll take their names,” he assured her. “They won’t be back here.”

Beth thanked them and the bouncers moved away. Laurens, who had tensed up at the sight of their uniforms, felt relief wash over him, although he didn’t know if it had to do with Drayton’s departure or theirs.

“Well done for getting them,” Angelica told Beth. “For a second, it looked like that might get ugly.”

“I wouldn’t have let it get ugly,” Mulligan frowned.

“You don’t always get a say in the matter,” said Beth.

“I’ll be right back,” said Laurens.

He hurried after the bouncers, weaving his way through the audience and waiting until they had firmly concluded their business with Drayton’s friends before approaching them.

“Hey man, thanks for that,” he said, offering his hand gratefully. 

“No sweat, brother,” the bouncer clasped it, bumping Laurens against his chest. “If we’d known who they were fuckers would never have got in here.”

“I was wondering if I could get a look at their names,” said Laurens casually. “Let some of the other places know.”

“Sure thing,” the bouncer nodded eagerly, fishing out a folded piece of paper and handing it to Laurens. “Hey, listen bro. You let me know if there are any openings going on elsewheres? This place don’t pay as good as it used to and I’d like to take my girl out sometime. Maybe see some of your stuff.”

“Sure thing,” Laurens hummed unthinkingly, busy taking a photo of the names. Call it a hunch, but he didn’t think it a longshot to assume that friends of a known white supremacist might have links to a certain alt-right chatroom. Besides, it wasn’t like he had any other leads.

The bouncer was still talking. “She really digs you,” he was saying. “My girl, I mean. Enough to make a man a little jealous.”

Laurens smiled upon catching sight of a text from Hamilton, answering it quickly before slipping his phone in his back pocket. “Tell her I’m taken.”

*

“Oh,” said Laurens, opening the door of his apartment to see Hamilton sitting on the couch, his laptop propped up on the coffee table. “You’re here.”

Hamilton did jazz hands. “Surprise.”

“Is that it?” Laurens closed the door and tried not to feel too disappointed.

“What were you expecting?”

“Your text said you had a surprise for me, followed by the winky face. I dunno, I guessed you’d be a little more…” Hamilton was blinking at him. He pushed past it. “Naked.”

Hamilton snorted, returning to his typing. “And laying on your bed, covered with rose petals?” he said contemptuously. “Do people really do that outside of sitcoms?”

“I don’t know,” Laurens replied, shaking off his parker. “This is my first relationship. Sitcoms are all I have to go by.”

“Aw. And here I am, constantly smashing every expectation,” Hamilton pushed out his bottom lip in a parody of sympathy. “You should have read the Terms and Conditions when you signed up to me.”

Laurens chuckled, dropping his parker over Hamilton and grabbing a beer from the fridge. “Where’s Tallmadge?” he asked.

“Behind the couch,” Hamilton replied.

Laurens looked behind the couch. Sure enough, Tallmadge and André were laying on the carpet with their mouths hanging open, staring up at the water-stained ceiling as though it were a constellation in a summer night’s sky.

“Are they still alive?” Hamilton asked without looking up from his laptop. “I’ve been throwing things at them every hour to check.”

“Hey,” said André, pointing up at Laurens’ face. “That one kind of looks like Laurens.”

“Oh my God,” said Laurens.

“It spoke,” gawped Tallmadge. “Whoa. God has the same face as my room-mate.”

“Well, we already knew _that,”_ said Hamilton charmingly, winking at Laurens.

Laurens shook his head in disbelief, cracking open his beer and slumping down next to Hamilton who turned his laptop away from him.

“What are you working on?” asked Laurens, craning his neck to see the screen.

Hamilton pushed him away. “My draft paper,” he replied instantly. “You can’t see it yet, wait till it’s finished.”

“You make it sound like a Christmas present,” said Laurens amusedly.

“It’s part two,” replied Hamilton. “In case you didn’t like the T-shirt.” He glanced at the beer in Laurens’ hands. “I thought you weren’t supposed to be drinking that.”

Laurens glanced down at the beer and grimaced. “Habit, I guess,” he shrugged, placing it back on the table. “You can have it, if you like. Seeing as you seem to have kept away from the mushrooms.”

Hamilton shook his head. “I don’t do hard drugs,” he replied. “Except you, obviously.”

Laurens felt his grin widen, face heating up a little. “Why are you being so sweet to me?”

Hamilton shrugged. “I feel bad about the rose petals now,” he replied. “And, I don’t know. I missed you, I guess.” He looked up at Laurens, a flicker of vulnerability dancing across his face. “I started looking forward to seeing you,” he said. “Only you were gone a long time.”

“We went out after the open mic set,” Laurens explained. “To the Jazz Café. There was…an incident.” A sharp crease appeared between Hamilton’s eyebrows, and Laurens could guess what he was thinking. “Drayton was there,” he elaborated quickly before the thought could manifest itself.

_“Drayton?!”_

“Ya. It was cool though, the bouncers kicked him out.”

Hamilton swore savagely, a spark of terrible fury leaping into his eye. “The fucking nerve,” he hissed. “The absolute fucking nerve. To come into one of our spaces, with the same self-assurance as he did when carrying banners and Confederate flags…honestly, can you _believe_ the entitlement?”

“It was quite something,” Laurens agreed. He shook his head, a humourless laugh escaping from his lips. “It was like the inappropriacy hadn’t even occurred to him.”

Hamilton hummed thoughtfully, leaning back across the couch so that his shirt rucked up. Laurens followed the movement with his eyes, watching the lower muscles dance beneath his skin as he stretched. “Like…the psychology of it,” he continued. “It’s truly fascinating. Like no matter where you are, whatever the situation, it’s a place for you. You just belong there.” He shook his head in awe. “God, what I’d give for a sense of self-possession like that.”

“It’s not something you’re born with,” Laurens reminded him. “It’s something the world gives you.”

Hamilton inclined his head. “I know,” he said. “Still. Would be nice.”

He stretched one last time, glancing at Laurens to check he was looking. Noticing, Laurens tore his gaze away from Hamilton’s abdomen to raise an eyebrow at him.

“Anyway,” he changed the subject. “Not that it’s not great to see you for the first time in six hours, but what are you doing in my apartment?”

“He came to see _me,”_ Tallmadge’s voice sounded from behind the couch before Hamilton could lie. “Like when the angel came for Abraham.”

Laurens looked quizzically at Hamilton who looked briefly stricken. “Abraham?”

Hamilton shook it off quickly. “Who knows,” he shrugged. “There’s been kind of a lot of Scripture going around.”

“You mean Gabriel,” André lifted his hand with great effort, and put it on Tallmadge’s shoulder. “With the angel.”

“Not Gabriel, _Caleb,”_ Tallmadge corrected him. “And Anna, and Nathaniel.” Without warning, he suddenly let out a great heavy sob. “I miss my friends.”

“I miss fisherman’s pie,” said André. “That’s good stuff.”

“We should put these guys to bed,” Laurens observed, frowning at them. “Or at least to couch.”

“Yeah, good call,” agreed Hamilton, getting to his feet. “You take heads, I’ll take tails?”

“Did you say that specifically to avoid calling tops or bottoms.”

“Ha Ha.”                                                  

They each grabbed an end, first with Tallmadge then with André, and lifted them onto the couches. Neither were particularly helpful during the process, giggling all the while and attempting to swing. Once dropped on the soft cushions however, all energy seemed to drain out of them. Hamilton went to fill up glasses of water, setting them down next to them while Laurens unearthed a couple of blankets.

“Lights on or off, boys?” he asked, hovering by the doorway after tucking them in.

“On,” Tallmadge called out.

“You’re paying the next electricity bill,” Laurens told him.

“You think it’s okay to leave them alone?” Hamilton asked, following Laurens to his room.

Laurens nodded. “They’ll be down soon,” he replied. “I’ll keep the door open and stay up till then. Thanks for watching them.”

“It’s fine,” replied Hamilton dismissively. “André kept telling me he’d like me if I was a girl which, you know. Is always nice to hear.”

“Oh really?” Laurens raised his eyebrows, sending a fleeting look at André, spread-eagled on the couch. “Anything else I should know?”

Hamilton smirked at Laurens’ disapproval, collapsing onto the bed and bouncing slightly. “Not that I can think of,” he replied. “I’ll let you know if anything comes to mind.”

He stretched out his arm, beckoning for Laurens to come over. Getting the message Laurens bent down, allowing Hamilton to hook his arm around his neck and pull him into a kiss.

“What about you,” he murmured against his lips once they parted. “About Jazz Café. Anything else I should know?”

Laurens shook his head, lowering his mouth to Hamilton’s throat. “Nothing,” he replied, before pushing him back into the pillows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drugs are bad
> 
> If only bouncers were this nice and helpful in real life jfc
> 
> I'm gonna link the [playlist ](https://open.spotify.com/user/qj62k1u4tw0sye0cjpxy9l30i/playlist/07ktKJb6tBw0EQDghn5mVx?si=E57QR7nhTKWXBax86R2HAQ)buuuut rather than in it's complete form i'm going to add to it per chapter because although I have a pretty solid idea where i want this to end up, it's much less tighter in structure than the last story and i want some wiggle room to manoeuvre. hopefully ur enjoying the sort of character-based, meandering approach I'm taking - if not, do say and I'll like...file it away for reference or something


	11. Eins Zwei Polizei - Mo-Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ja, ja, ja, was ist los? was ist das?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw more drugs, I'm rly sorry this is not an endorsement 
> 
> quite seriously, there is some potentially unsettling stuff in the latter part of this chapter and if hard drugs makes you uncomfortable then pls bare in mind

“Colorado and California think they’re at the head of the running,” Jefferson told his audience, blowing a thin stream of smoke into the air. “But actually, Vermont’s where it’s at. Second highest number of regular users in the country too, although Virginia’s creeping up there. Only a matter of time before we get our shit together and legalise it.”

“Is it not legal?” asked Lafayette, accepting the joint from where he lay sprawled across the bean-bag. “I thought it was legal.”

Jefferson shook his head. “They expanded affirmative defence for possession,” he explained. “Medical use only. But de facto, de jure. It’s only a matter of time.”

“I wish people would get off their high horse about it,” Al Gallatin commented with a frown. “All these old timers and Baby Boomers complaining it’s the scourge of society, or whatever. I don’t know anyone who ever committed a crime because of weed.”

“And yet possession and dealing make up the vast population in terms of mass incarceration,” Jefferson observed. “Just goes to show what the so-called war on drugs is really about.” The others blinked at him non-comprehendingly. “Blacks,” he supplied.

“And you think that legalisation would help with that?” asked Madison, lifting the joint to his lips.

Jefferson shrugged. “I think it would get rid of some of the stigma,” he replied. “If people associated cannabis with respectable, middle-class members of society y’know, people with real jobs and families. People who contribute, rather than just your average scruffy-haired hobo from the ghetto.”

Lafayette raised his eyebrows at this description but said nothing.

“If cannabis was legalised,” voiced Jonny Sullivan. “People would be way more chill about race and stuff.”

“So you would be happy to release the disproportionate number of black people wrongfully imprisoned for minor weed-related offences?” prompted Lafayette.

He waited patiently while several people exchanged uncertain glances. “Sure,” Sullivan replied at last, albeit uncomfortably. “You know. If they didn’t do anything wrong.”

“‘Right’ and ‘wrong’ are subjective concepts,” drawled Jefferson. “The only absolute truth is that nothing is true.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Lafayette. “Alexander says that.”

Jefferson smiled lazily. “He probably got it from me.”

“Perhaps,” Lafayette agreed, letting his head fall back against the bean-bag. “You have more in common than he cares to remember.” He paused, brain working slowly through the fuddle of smoke. “Although…he says that nothing is true, but he doesn’t act like it,” he thought out loud. “He behaves like everything is a matter of black and white. Ah. Excuse the phrasing.”

Jefferson smirked. “Hamilton is a pragmatist,” he tilted his head. “At the end of the day, he’ll say whatever it takes to help his argument.”

“Huh,” Madison raised an eyebrow. “Except for when he doesn’t.”

“What happened between you two?” inquired Lafayette, turning his head to the side in order to look at Madison curiously. “Alexander says you used to be good friends.”

Madison shrugged, flicking the butt into the champagne glass they were using as an ash tray. “I decided I didn’t want to hitch my wagon to someone who kept putting their foot in their mouth,” he answered.

“The way he talks,” Lafayette continued, voice edging on accusing. “I think he feels like you betrayed him. He was hurt very badly.”

Madison rolled his eyes. “He takes everything so personally,” he said, lip curling. “He’ll get over it. It’s not like he’s short of friends.”

“And powerful ones at that,” Gallatin concurred. “Schuyler, Washington, Knox. Even Henry Laurens, if the rumours are true.”

Lafayette jerked up at that. “Rumours?” he echoed, trying to sound casual.

Gallatin nodded. “He was speaking to my father,” he explained. “Kept describing him as ‘promising’ if misguided. Wanted to put him in touch with some individuals who might set him on the right path.”

If there was a hint of jealousy in Jefferson’s expression he disguised it well, stretching out a casual hand to take the joint from Tim Pickering. “Must help,” he said indifferently. “Being so close with his son and all.”

“Yes,” said Lafayette, a little louder than intended. “They are lovely friends.”

“Just friends?” prompted Madison.

“Amis,” offered Jefferson, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“No,” Lafayette frowned. “I mean…yes, but,” he cursed internally, foiled by the nuances of his own language.

“I always kind of assumed Laurens was queer,” Pickering said idly, then threw an anxious glance at Lafayette. “Can you say that now?”

“They use it,” Jefferson assured him. “Which means we can.”

Lafayette scoffed. “That’s not how it works.”

Jefferson’s thin lips curled into a snakelike smile. “Agree to disagree.”

“Even if he is or if he isn’t,” Pickering slid in smoothly. “He was a cool guy. Real funny, great music taste. I miss hanging out with him.”

 “Sure,” Sullivan nodded nostalgically. “Before he got too black to sit with us.”

“I do not think that is what happened,” Lafayette squirmed, uncomfortably conscious that it was his group Laurens had left them for. “Laurens just has more in common with us. It was not a question of politics.” He laughed embarrassedly. “If that was the case, I am not sure Alexander would be too enthusiastic to have me. I am a marquis, after all.”

“How can you be black,” asked Conway, speaking up for the first time since being given the zoot. “If you’re a marquis?”

Lafayette smiled thinly at him. “Just got lucky, I guess,” he said coldly.

“Laurens chose Hamilton’s camp,” Jefferson waved dismissively before Conway could say anything more stupid. “Can’t fault him for it. Sooner or later, everyone has to pick a side.”

There was a knock at the door. Madison reached up to the grab the handle, opening it to let Burr in. “Good evening,” he greeted Madison’s apartment, closing it carefully behind him.

“If it isn’t the exception to the rule,” Jefferson grinned widely. “Welcome, Lord Stanley.”

“Stanley?” inquired Lafayette.

“During the British War of the Roses,” Gallatin explained. “Lord Stanley remained on the fence, non-commitally supporting the Yorkists until the Battle of Bosworth, where he suddenly changed his allegiance to the Lancastrians and helped secure victory for Henry VII.”

“Oh,” said Lafayette. “That’s…specific.”

“Lafayette,” Burr’s eyes widened slightly as he worked to conceal his surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I did not expect to be here,” Lafayette admitted dolefully.

“Join us,” said Jefferson, shifting up on the floor so that Burr could sit down. Burr did so gingerly, shooting quizzical glances at Lafayette who by this point was too far gone to notice. “Surprised to find a fellow Lancastrian?”

Burr smiled crookedly. “Gracious of you to give them the winning side,” he commented.

“Well I could hardly attribute to Hamilton the white rose,” Jefferson shrugged. “Even with what I’ve been writing about him, that would be stretching the analogy a little thin.” He took a long drag of the newly-rolled joint before passing it to Burr. “Besides, even the Tudors couldn’t hold onto power forever.”

“Damn right,” Conway interjected, the words seeming to slide out his mouth. “Same as Washington. That limp-dicked old bastard’s days are numbered.”

“You shut your mouth,” Lafayette exploded.

“Hey, hey, hey,” frowned Jefferson, raising his hands soothingly. “Good vibes only. Burr, my man,” he turned to Burr, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “How’s that internship of yours coming along?”

“Very well thank you,” Burr replied politely. “A lot of work, but I’m keeping on top of things.”

“Still can’t believe you managed to swing a paid position at JP’s,” Gallatin shook his head. “No nepotism either.”

“Nepotism is a lot easier to avoid when your parents aren’t alive,” said Burr.

“No,” replied Lafayette blithely. “You only had to sell out your friends instead.”

Burr shrugged indifferently, accepting the joint from Jefferson. “I did what I had to do.”

“There’s my Lord Stanley,” Jefferson clapped him heartily on the arm. “Tell me, how did Hamilton take it when you released that statement after the debate?”

“About as well as you’d expect,” Burr replied unconcernedly. “Water under the bridge. We’re friends again.”

Madison wrinkled his nose sceptically. “I find that hard to believe,” he said. “From my experience, Hamilton isn’t exactly the type to drop a grudge.”

Burr shrugged again. “Perhaps he has matured since you knew him,” he replied. “Lafayette, seeing as you’re here might I borrow you for a moment? My boss has sent me a document written in French and there’s a small section I’m having some trouble with.”

“Certainly,” answered Lafayette, a little confused at why this apparently required getting to his feet but staggering after Burr anyway.

Burr led Lafayette into the kitchen, just stopping short of closing the door behind them. After a throw-away glance to check that the others weren’t paying attention he leant in close, speaking to Lafayette with his voice hushed.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, to the point the way the knife on the sideboard was to the point. “Did Alexander send you?”

“I…what?” asked Lafayette blearily, Burr’s urgency sounding sluggish and dense in his head. “Why would Alexander send me?”

“I don’t know,” said Burr impatiently. “Perhaps as some sort of spy.”

“Oh no, I am not a good spy,” Lafayette shook his head. “You will want Benjamin for that, he is very good at finding things out. People tell me secrets, because I am friendly and approachable, but I can never keep them to myself. But Ben is not really either of those things, and very good at looking like he does not care, so people tell him everything.”

“So Hamilton didn’t tell you to,” Burr lowered his voice even further so that Lafayette had to bend closer to hear. “Get close to Conway? Or Lee’s group in general?”

“Lee’s group?” Lafayette repeated stupidly. “No, of course not. I am acquaintances with some of them, but I was invited by Jefferson. It was not my fault,” he added defensively, although Burr hadn’t said anything. “He is a very smooth talker, especially when it comes to France, and matters of the heart. Also, he had weed.”

“Oh,” said Burr, taking a step back from Lafayette as his expression shuttered closed. “Alright then.”

Lafayette looked at him curiously, made as suspicious by his sudden impassiveness as by his previous urgency. “Why would Hamilton tell me to get close to Conway?”

To his surprise, instead of lying straight away, Burr let out a frustrated sigh. “I really wish he would clue me in on how much the rest of you know,” he said. “I thought at least he would have spoken to you.”

“Why?” Lafayette demanded, interest quickly spilling into indignation. “What has he been keeping from me?”

“You are aware of my true purpose in working for Jacques Prevost.”

“Yes, of course. To find proof that he has been taking bribes from the Draytons,” Lafayette frowned, perplexed at what this had to do with anything. “But I am perplexed at what this has to do with anything.”

“Through my attempts, I have also discovered evidence concerning Washington,” Burr continued. “I’m not sure what it means, only that Lee and Conway may be using it to secure his ousting. I had hoped you might be able to find out, considering your close personal relationship with him.”

“I do have a close personal relationship with him,” Lafayette agreed with pride. “However, that is by the by. What do you mean ‘evidence’? Washington would never do anything that was in the least shady, or improper!”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Burr smoothly. “But it’s possible that his enemies might be able to make it look otherwise. Look, I don’t know. But with your help, I might be able to find out.”

Burr waited, gaze level as he watched Lafayette expectantly. Lafayette’s head was spinning; he put his hand on the chair beside him to steady himself. He could hear the sound of the others laughing in the next room, loud and uninhibited as only those who knew they had the right to be heard. Even through the muddle of Burr’s revelation, Lafayette found himself reflecting dimly how easy it would have been for he and Laurens to slot into this friendship group if things had been different. Indeed, it very nearly had been so.

*

_One year ago_

Lafayette blinked through the bright, coloured lights flashing erratically through the artificial darkness of the living room, each one seeming a warning of dire importance meant specifically for him. He was quite unsure how he had ended up here. Tim Pickering had been very nice to invite him to his birthday party, considering they had only ever exchanged the bare minimum of friendly conversations during their time together in class. While there were a few people whose faces were familiar, none of them seemed to be in a fit state to recognise him. Since coming through the door Lafayette had sent cheery waves in several directions, and nearly every one had been met with the same zombie-ish, blank look.

Uncomfortably surrounded by violently enthusiastic dancers, Lafayette took a sip of his drink. There was not very much alcohol available. This seemed to be not out of a failure to procure false IDs, but because Pickering’s guests were apparently more partial to other kinds of intoxicants. Lafayette wasn’t one to judge, however, he did think it was only polite to have been sent a memo beforehand. In this forbodingly dark room which its neon lights, hideous music and flailing limbs, he was beginning to feel very out of place.

“Hey. Hey man. Are you alright? What’s up, are you ok?”

Lafayette was startled out of his reverie to see a tall boy staring at him with wide-blown eyes. He was wearing kakis and a pale pink polo shirt, a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses propped precariously on his dark head.

“Are you ok?” the boy demanded again, the words coming out so quickly Lafayette struggled to translate. “Do you need anything?”

“No, no,” Lafayette forced a smile, despite the distracting glare bouncing off the boy’s sunglasses. “I am fine, thank you. I don’t need anything.”

“Oh DUDE!” the boy exclaimed violently, eyes stretching if possible even wider. “Shit man, are you French? You speak French? _Parlez-vous français? Cela vous dérangez si je change?_ Do you mind if I switch?”

“Not at all!” Lafayette practically yelled with glee, almost abandoning his drink in his exuberance. To have found two French speakers within only two weeks! What luck! “In fact I would prefer it, my English is still very bad. This is such a relief! How is it you know French?”

“I went to school in Geneva,” the boy replied flawlessly, if heavily Swiss accented. “How do _you_ know French?”

“I am French!”

“DUDE,” roared the boy. “NO FUCKING WAY.”

“Yes way!” Lafayette nodded, delighted by his enthusiasm.

“That is so fucking cool man,” said the boy, shaking his long, curly hair out his eyes to reveal pupils that were almost as big as the irises. “Fucking kudos. Credit to you, man. Thanks for doing that for us, back in the day, ya know?”

“You are very welcome,” said Lafayette, strangely feeling a little humbled. “The pleasure is ours.”

“What’s your name?”

“Lafayette.”

“Lafayette,” the boy repeated, rolling the word around in his mouth. “Lafayette, Lafayette. I’m Laurens. John Laurens. Not Jonny. Not Jack. _Definitely_ not Jacky. Except if you’re my dad. Which you’re not, haha. Are you?”

“I don’t think so,” replied Lafayette.

“You’re not,” said Laurens decisively. “You’re not, because if you are I would be in _trooouuubleeee.”_

He barked out a laugh which Lafayette joined in on, not quite getting the joke but wanting to be a good sport.

“Dance with me,” Laurens ordered.

“Okay!” Lafayette agreed, having kept a wary distance of the dancefloor up to this point but feeling emboldened by the new company.

Laurens went away and returned, having requested a song. The second it came on, the bass throbbing so hard Lafayette could feel it through the floorboards he let out a crow of delight, immediately pumping his fist in time to the music. Lafayette laughed incredulously, watching as Laurens flipped his sunglasses over his eyes and began to dance with unselfconscious fervour, his long limbs carrying an odd sort of elegant grace despite the brutal ugliness of the roaring EDM. As horrible to his taste as it was, it wasn’t long before Lafayette found himself dancing too, allowing Laurens to take his hands and thrust his arms back and forth, breaking off only to spin him under his arm.

They danced for a long time, Lafayette feeling as though the music had crept beneath his skin and was now sitting there at a constant, vibrant hum. Despite his own sobriety there was something about Laurens’ happiness that was ridiculously contagious, and he found that despite his discomfort and loneliness in this strange new city, steadily creeping up on him since the moment he had first entered the house, he was enjoying himself more than he had all night.

“I need some water,” Laurens shouted over the next pulse of ‘ _Eins Zwei Polizei’._

“Alright,” said Lafayette, glancing anxiously over his shoulder out of fear that Laurens intended to leave him alone.

However Laurens steered him forward, not in the direction of the kitchen but towards the bathroom. Once inside he made a beeline for the tap, holding his head under it and drinking thirstily. When he had finished he slumped back against the toilet, knees and hands jittering furiously as he began to tap out a nervous rhythm on his thigh. Lafayette stood over him nervously, unsettled and concerned by the wild frenzy in his eyes.

“You’re really good looking,” Laurens said suddenly.

Lafayette blinked at him, taken aback. “Thank you.”

“S’alright,” shrugged Laurens. A beat. “I’m not gay, by the way.”

“Okay,” said Lafayette, perplexed.

Laurens resumed the shaking of his leg, throwing listless looks around the bathroom. “My dad is gonna be so mad,” he rabbited.

“He’s not here,” Lafayette tried his best to sound reassuring.

Laurens shook his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Doesn’t matter if he knows or if he doesn’t know, he’s always mad at me. Even when he’s not angry I can tell he’s still mad at me.”

He gazed pleadingly up at Lafayette, as if hoping to convey some degree of desperate understanding. Lafayette wished from the bottom of his heart he could return it. “Why would he be mad at you?” he asked softly.

“I don’t know,” crowed Laurens. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.”

All of a sudden he spun around, tossed back his hair and threw up into the toilet.

“Oh my God,” winced Lafayette, kneeling down beside him and putting a hand on his back. “Are you alright? Do you want me to get anyone?”

“No,” said Laurens, wiping a shaking hand across his mouth. “I’m good, I’m fine.” He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” answered Lafayette. “It happens.” _Presumably._

“You’re such a good guy,” Laurens told him. “Have we met before? I feel like I’ve known you for ages. I feel like we’re already best friends.”

Laurens stared at Lafayette, and Lafayette stared back into those wild dark eyes, eyes blown so massive it was like staring into the last embers of a dying star, eyes that in that moment seemed to contain a whole world of longing and confusion and desperation and for whatever reason – maybe it was the alien strangeness of the situation, or his loneliness, or his own desperate desire for romance and adventure – but in that moment, Lafayette thought he knew exactly what he meant.

“Yes,” Lafayette heard himself say. “Me too.”

 

The next morning, laying in the bed of his rented hotel room, Lafayette cracked a bleary eye open to a new friend request. It was from John Laurens. He accepted it. Within five minutes, his phone chimed with a message.

_JL: hey_

_soz about last nite - was a massive mess. thanx for being a pal *thumbs up*_

Joyful excitement curling in his stomach, Lafayette hurriedly typed out a reply.

_GdMlMdL: do nót worry!! It was worth it meet ánother francophone :)_

_Besides what are best friends for?_

_JL: FUCK i was so hoping i didnt actually say that. i have a tendency 2 get v affectionate_

_i didnt try 2 make out w u did i_

_GdMMdL: Lol it was very sweet. And no, not to my memory_

_Even if you had all would be forgiven! I need all the friénds I can get_

He held his breath, hoping he wasn’t being too forward as the three dots flashed across the screen.

_JL: well in that case…_

_*John Laurens has sent a gif*_

His eyes taking a moment to adjust Lafayette peered at the screen, before letting out a loud laugh. It was an animation of the Statue of Liberty, shaking cartoon hands with the Eiffel tower while fireworks exploded overhead.

_JL: u can probs do a lot better à l'américaine but i am fun sometimes_

_GdMMdL: I may need sober proof_

_JL: i can provide that. u wanna catch a movie sometime?_

_GdMMdL: Oui Oui mon ami_

_JL: *thumbs up*_

_GdMMdL: *thumbs up*_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late update, i have The Block and this took a stupid amount of effort


	12. Rose Rouge - St Germain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Washington so more jazz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for another late chapter :( forgot to mention I was going away for a long weekend in the last update. 
> 
> i am also back to working full-time (mucho sigh) and while i will try and keep it 2x a week do not be surprised if this...does not happen

Hamilton woke up with Laurens’ cock pressing, hard and insistent, against his thigh.

He rolled over carefully, attempting to cause the minimal amount of disturbance. Laurens’ eyelids fluttered but didn’t open, his clasp around Hamilton’s waist tightening subconsciously, as if instinctively scared of losing him. His lips were slightly parted and he was breathing softly, ruffling a loose curl strewn across a face that was calm and untroubled – innocent, even. And entirely at odds with the tent pulling taut the material of his boxer briefs.

Hamilton looked down at Laurens’ erection, biting his lip automatically as heat rushed towards his own groin. Without thinking too much about it he pressed himself against Laurens, groaning a little as his cock slid against his thigh. At the sound Laurens’ eyes flickered open a sliver and he gazed sleepily at Hamilton under heavy lids, still not quite conscious. Hamilton drew closer, rubbing off on Laurens who moaned at the friction, coming to quickly as he realised what was happening. Seeing he was properly awake now Hamilton ran his fingers across Laurens’ jaw, tilting his head upwards to catch his mouth, at the same time sliding further up against him. Laurens moaned into the kiss, both at the feeling of Hamilton’s wet tongue pushing into him and at his cock grinding against him.

The kiss was lazy, open-mouthed – both of them too sleepy to think much by way of coordination beyond messily sliding together. Laurens was panting, breaths coming short and fast as the heat in his cock grew more intense, making him light-headed. Hamilton was making little desperate mewling noises which were driving him crazy, each one shooting straight to both ends of his body until he could feel himself getting close. Just as he was about to warn him however Hamilton slipped his hand down between them and into Laurens’ boxers, jerking quickly and rubbing his thumb over the head. Laurens groaned, dropping his head against Alexander’s shoulder and gasping as his orgasm took him, shuddering through his body in waves until what little space there was between them was soaking.

Once Laurens had come Hamilton increased his pace, rutting feverishly against him with new desperation. Laurens held him tightly, muttering encouragements into his ear and stroking the back of his thigh with his knuckles until suddenly he threw back his head, releasing a sharp cry. His body arched and shuddered; Laurens felt new wetness on his hips, running quickly down his legs.

At long last, Hamilton stilled. With a final heavy sigh he cracked an eye open, smiling sheepishly at Laurens.

“Morning,” he said.

Laurens laughed delightedly. Still grinning, Hamilton pushed himself into a sitting position and flung away the covers, glancing down interestedly at Laurens’ cum on his torso. “We didn’t get any on the bed,” he commented.

“Good,” Laurens yawned, sitting up himself. “I’m running out of detergent.”

Hamilton nodded in agreement. “Being in a relationship is expensive,” he said. “I’m having a shower. You should reduce your water bill and come in with me.”

“Can’t argue with that logic,” replied Laurens, pushing himself onto his feet and following Hamilton into the bathroom.

Afterwards they lay on the bed, shorts and t-shirts slightly damp on account of not bothering to dry properly. Hamilton’s head was in Laurens’ lap, wet hair splayed out across his knees in a fan as he gazed up at his Twitter feed, trying very hard not to think about Laurens next to him, frowning at the screen of his laptop as he read through his draft paper.

He was taking a very long time. Hamilton scrolled through his phone, not wanting to let his anxiety get to him but conscious of Laurens reading like he would be a line of ants marching beneath his skin. When he couldn’t take it anymore he snuck a glance at him, hoping to gage his reaction. There was a deep line splitting the skin of Laurens’ brow, as appeared whenever he was concentrating hard on something, and he was running his thumb back and forth across his bottom lip. 

“Do you get it?” Hamilton burst, unable to contain himself any longer.

Laurens hesitated a long time before replying. “I think so,” he answered, not wholly reassuringly. “So basically…you’re arguing that entrepreneurial attitude can be marketed as an export, and that the role of emigrants in promoting economic growth lies not so much in labour force and manpower but in the promotion of entrepreneurial attitudes.”

Hamilton squirmed uncomfortably. “I mean, not in a definitive sense,” he said, lifting his head off Laurens’ lap to look at the screen. “I’m not saying that immigrants stimulating growth because they do the jobs that born Americans don’t want to do is fake news, or anything. I’m just saying that the immigrant _philosophy_ in terms of self-employment and carving out a space for oneself does more for a capitalist economy than like, quota systems or alphabet agencies. And that that philosophy can be bought and sold, in the same way that entrepreneurial attitudes as shaped by the American mythos – belief in rugged individualism, self-made man and all that crap – are both threatened and supported by the movements of urban migration.”

“Right,” Laurens nodded, still sounding a little unsure. “Because from what it sounds like here, you’re saying that American poverty exists specifically due to the lack of migrants in non-industrial areas.”

“Where does it say that?” asked Hamilton irritably, jerking his laptop round to face him.

Laurens pointed out the paragraph. Hamilton skimmed it briefly, lips moving over the shape of the words which, while making sense in his head, seemed suddenly jumbled and confused.

“It’s a theoretical supposition as one of a number of factors,” he told Laurens. “Not the sole cause.”

“Okay, well then I think you need to make that clearer,” Laurens replied. “Because how it reads at the moment it’s kind of like you’re making a great, sweeping statement which is just…not true.”

“It’s not _not_ true,” Hamilton countered.

“Well, it is,” Laurens winced. “You can’t say Mississippi is the poorest state just ‘because there are no immigrants’, that’s super reductive and fatuous. Also, here it sounds like you’re calling slaves immigrants.”

“It’s not _saying_ that,” Hamilton snapped, yanking his laptop away from Laurens. “It’s all about commercial value…look, it makes sense if you do Economics.”

“Then why did you ask me to look over it?” asked Laurens tiredly. “If you’re going to take _that_ entrepreneurial attitude.”

“I don’t know,” said Hamilton peevishly, settling back against Laurens’ legs and darkening the screen.

Laurens shook his head hopelessly, too exasperated to be properly offended. “Do you ever think maybe you have a problem with taking criticism?” he asked, running his hands through Hamilton’s curls.

“Do you ever think maybe shut up,” Hamilton muttered.

Laurens smirked and picked up his phone, answering his messages from André and dutifully pretending to ignore Hamilton re-reading the sections he had highlighted. For a while there was quiet apart from the clicking and the smattering of Hamilton’s keyboard as he made corrections, occasionally huffing frustratedly or making snarky comments under his breath which Laurens was pretty sure were aimed at Adams rather than him, until he broke the silence.

“You know who can’t take criticism,” he said.

“You.”

“Washington.”

Laurens blinked at him in surprise. “Really?” he asked. “I wouldn’t have expected that. He always strikes me as very fair.”

Hamilton snorted in contempt. “Frickin’ glamour,” he replied. “Total façade. He makes out like he’s all calm and collected y’know, the picture of absolute reason. No one would believe he has a fuse shorter than mine.”

“Fuck off,” Laurens frowned sceptically.

“I’m serious,” Hamilton insisted. “You didn’t see how he blew up at me the other day over the _smallest_ thing. I forgot to fax a hard copy of these documents to Greene even though I’d _already sent them by email_ and they were like _five minutes late_ and he went ape. It was fucking ridiculous.”

“Are you sure it was five minutes?” asked Laurens, who was well-accustomed to Hamilton’s less than deferential attitude towards the concept of time, having once described it as ‘heterosexist propaganda’.

“Alright, maybe ten minutes,” Hamilton conceded. “At a push. But I had _already emailed them._ It was a bullshit reaction, all because he got out the wrong side of bed that morning. That’s the thing, whenever he’s in a bad mood he takes it all out on _me_ and no one else ever sees it.”

He tilted his head up to blink at Laurens, who was looking less than convinced. “You don’t believe me,” he stated flatly.

“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” Laurens explained. “This is the first time you’ve told me about it. I’m having a hard time processing.”

“Yeah well,” Hamilton shrugged, settling back against him. “I’m hardly gonna speak out against the guy. Not when he’s at his most vulnerable, with all this Lee and board shit going on. I’m pretty good at keeping stuff to myself, in case you hadn’t noticed. That doesn’t mean I wanna lick his boots.”

“I thought you got on,” said Laurens, trying not to dwell too much on the phrasing.

“We _do,”_ Hamilton sighed heavily. “Most of the time. But sometimes he’s like a big child. A big, fat, petty man-child who doesn’t have a kid of his own to coddle or take his shit out on so he divides the time between me and Lafayette.”

“Yikes,” grimaced Laurens.

“Yikes is right,” Hamilton agreed. He hesitated, feeling suddenly guilty for bitching about Washington after keeping it so long bottled up. “Look, I’m not saying I don’t like the guy,” he said quickly. “I like him a lot. He’s probably my favourite adult, Papa Schuyler included. It just gets to me that Gilbert’s so blinded by the sun he seems to think shines out of his ass.”

“That is visceral,” commented Laurens.

“You’re welcome,” responded Hamilton, clicking off his paper and scrolling idly through his emails. He couldn’t remember how he had even gotten onto this subject. There had been a link somewhere, something to do with one of the sentences Laurens had highlighted, about credit and trust… “Oh yeah. I keep forgetting, but you know the trustee dinner is on Thursday? You still wanna go?”

It took Laurens a second to work out what Hamilton was talking about, thrown as he was by the anxious, walking-on-egg-shells expression on his face. When he did work it out he felt his stomach drop about three feet. “Oh that,” he forced out, trying to sound as casual as Hamilton had. “Don’t we kind of have to, since we said we would?”

“We don’t have to do anything we don’t want to,” countered Hamilton. “I can make up a story. Tell Washington you’re sick, or something.”

“You don’t have to make up anything for me,” Laurens replied tersely. “I said I’d come with you. You’re the one who’s invited, anyway. I’m just the date.”

“That’s true,” Hamilton hummed without thinking. “If you didn’t want to come, I could always take Eliza.”

“What?” asked Laurens sharply.

“Lafayette,” Hamilton amended. “I could always take Lafayette. I’m surprised he’s not already coming, actually. Maybe Washington didn’t want to make his favouritism more disgustingly obvious than it already is. Even so, he has connections with so many faculty members surely one of them would have invited him. Come to think of it, I haven’t actually spoken to him about it, maybe he is invited. I’ll make a note to ask,” he stopped, aware that he was babbling. “Anyway. What I’m saying is, if you think it’ll be too weird, with your dad there and everything, it’s not a big deal.”

“It’s fine, Alexander,” said Laurens, who had resumed scrolling through his phone.

“Right,” Hamilton nodded distractedly, his initial relief dissipating as the prospect of his next meeting with Henry Laurens loomed ever closer. “Fine.”

He returned to his emails, trying to rid the image of Henry’s cold, grey eyes judging him from behind their steely spectacles from his mind. Laurens, who had sacrificed his tether on the conversation in favour of searching through events apps, paused, his thumb over his phone screen.

“There are some NBA tickets going for really cheap,” he observed idly.

“Yeah?” asked Hamilton, craning his neck to peer at Laurens’ phone.

“Ya,” replied Laurens. “Good seats too.”

“Damn,” Hamilton whistled. “It’s on my free day as well.”

Laurens glanced up at him, not having actually considered buying them. “You wanna go?”

Hamilton considered briefly, working out in his head how many hours he had to study for this week. “I shouldn’t,” he admitted. “But…these are really cheap for how good they are.”

“Hey, ya know,” said Laurens, the thought suddenly occurring to him. “I don’t think we’ve even been on a real date yet.”

Hamilton frowned. “That can’t be right,” he said, racking his memory for activities that he and Laurens had done together outside of the friendship group. He came up short, the only examples he could think of having taken place before they’d gotten together. “We watch a lot of movies. And eat food.”

“We did that when we were friends,” Laurens pointed out. “Dude. At this rate our first real date is gonna be the trustee dinner.”

Hamilton pulled a repulsed face. “Ugh. That is so sad,” he shook his head emphatically. “Ok nope, that settles it. Get the damn tickets, John.”

“Okay,” Laurens grinned. “It’s done.” He put his phone down, all of a sudden feeling strangely shy and vulnerable. He didn’t know why making a plan with Hamilton that had to be logged into a calendar should be more nerve-wracking than a wake-up via hand-job, but somehow it was. “Do you maybe wanna do something this week as well?” he asked tentatively. “Friday maybe? After class?”

Hamilton cursed internally, shaking his head. “I can’t do Friday,” he replied regretfully. “I have a uh, tutor meeting. Maybe Saturday evening, though? If I get enough work done? I might not be able to do for long though, I have work on Sunday and was gonna get a couple more hours of revision in.”

“Sure,” Laurens smiled at him, pink roses creeping into his cheeks. “Take as much time as you need. I just wanna see you.”

Hamilton smiled back, ducking his head embarrassedly so that Laurens wouldn’t see his blush.

*

“It is not enough for it to be a systematic issue,” Lafayette explained, head bent close to Washington’s as he led him through the report. “But even so, the number of international students who have reported instances of prejudice on a xenophobic basis is still significant. However, what is more noteworthy is that the frequency of problems _actually getting solved_ is drastically lesser for foreign students than it is for Americans. Admittedly a lot of the time this can be traced down to carelessness and negligence rather than bigotry, and both Alexander and I can put ourselves in this category. Even so, it is enough to make internationals feel as though the faculty does not care, leading a lot of people to try to solve the problem themselves or simply make do.”

“Classical immigrant spirit,” Washington nodded sagely. “Having to carve your own way because the establishment never has the time or resources to accommodate to your needs.”

“Mmm. It is less about time or resources than it is about consideration,” Lafayette pointed out. “And money. Had I not been so fortunate as to have had mine, I would have been in a very difficult position due to an admin mix-up. And with day to day issues as well – generally speaking international students are accepted on a lower income basis and survive largely on loan, scholarship or bursary. However, that is not always enough to cover more than accommodation and living expenses. Certain policies have passed recently which make it more difficult for such students…Jefferson’s overriding Alexander’s motion for refurbishment of the computer rooms, for example...”

“Lafayette,” said Washington warningly.

“Hm?” Lafayette looked at him, eyes wide with innocence. “Oh, I’m sorry. You’re right – I must stop bringing my money into conversation, it is very crass. I really don’t have all that much. The Prince of Monaco has more. And the King of Swaziland. Maybe.”

“The point of this is to give an impartial judgement on the data you’ve collected. Not to serve as an endorser for Hamilton’s policies,” Washington chastised him.

“I know, I know,” Lafayette accepted, the wind knocked out of him now he had been found out. “But he would have been angry with me if I hadn’t brought it up.”

“You don’t have to do or say things just because Hamilton expects it of you,” Washington told him, a little angrily. “You’re your own man. He’s not even here.”

“That is not the point,” argued Lafayette. “I am my own man, but I am my friends’ first. Hamilton trusts me to speak for him in his absence. It is a great honour. He does not trust a lot of people.”

Washington’s face softened, although the reproachful frown stayed in place. “You’re very loyal, Lafayette,” he said grudgingly.

Lafayette shrugged. “I try to be,” he replied. “Alexander cannot really afford another betrayal right now. His circle of friends is not quite as wide as it used to be.”

“Maybe that’s because he has a tendency to push people away,” Washington mused. “Or refuse to consider the repercussions of his thoughtlessness for other people.”

Lafayette blinked at him, more than a little taken aback by the vehemence of the statement. “Mmm,” he settled on at last, unwilling to bitch about Hamilton to anyone who wasn’t Adrienne.

His reticence seemed to bring Washington back to himself. He fixed a smile onto his face, clapping a hand on Lafayette’s shoulder.

“This is very good work,” he told Lafayette. “Clear and thorough. I shall present it to the board.”

The words, while initially making his insides warm with praise, caused Lafayette to chew his lip in discomfort upon remembering his previous conversation with Burr. He did not know of how much Washington was aware. True there were those who had been running their mouths off since their fathers had been beaten for presidency, and the disdain certain families had for him was no secret. Since he’d first taken the position Washington had had enemies. But whether he knew exactly how intent they were on supplanting him was a different issue, and one Lafayette was unwilling to raise.

“Perhaps,” he began tentatively. “Is there not a way of doing this…without the board?”

The frown returned as Washington looked at Lafayette quizzically. “What do you mean?”

Lafayette shifted uncomfortably. “Just that,” he said. “I do not really see why we need their approval. If we do not go into the Treasury, then it does not need to go to a vote. I have already told you that I do not mind making a donation.”

“I don’t want to take your money, Lafayette,” Washington told him gently.

“It is not a problem,” insisted Lafayette. “I have almost as much as the Prince of Monaco!”

“Be that as it may,” Washington checked him. “It’s not just an issue of finance. The creation of a judicial body would significantly change the way the school is run. A decision like that can’t be made by Executive Order.”

“Oh but,” Lafayette could feel himself becoming more helpless and upset. He pushed past it, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. “If you take it to the board, then some people…might not like it…very much. Or you.”

Washington glanced at him sharply. “Which people?”

Lafayette fiddled with the clip of his report binder, which was in the shape of a panda. “Conway,” he suggested without meeting Washington’s gaze. “Or Lee.”

Washington blew out a laugh, shaking his head as if Lafayette had been going for a joke that hadn’t quite made the mark. “Oh them,” he said dismissively. “I really wouldn’t worry about that, Lafayette. They’ve been baying for my blood so long I’ve largely learned to tune them out.”

“So there is nothing that they might…use against you?” Lafayette pressed on, sneaking a look at Washington. “Nothing they might have found out or manipulated or…or made up?”

“No, not at all,” Washington frowned, looking at Lafayette as though worried he might have caught a cold. “Are you quite alright, Gilbert?”

“Yes,” replied Lafayette miserably. “I have just been watching too much _Engrenages_. That is the English _Spiral_ , I am watching a dub. It is actually much better than expected.” 

“Well, in any case,” said Washington warmly. “I’m touched that you’re concerned. But you spend too much time worrying about Alexander and me. You ought to take a break. Speaking of which…”

He glanced over his shoulder as if to check that no one was listening, a pointless exercise considering they were in his house and Martha was in the garden.

“I have something to show you,” he jerked his head. “Come with me.”

“Is it a new Bonnard?” Lafayette asked, getting up to follow him out the door. “Alexander told me you were interested in buying one. I think I will take up collecting, art is a nice thing to make a hobby from. Even if you have no talent for it yourself it is something everyone can enjoy. Also if I start with John and Eliza then I can build up slowly while also showcasing their work, which is a win-win situation- _C'est quoi ce bordel??!”_

Washington switched open the garage door. And Lafayette’s jaw nearly hit the sidewalk.

*

“Oh, what is this mess,” said Laurens, turning his phone so Mulligan could see the snapchat.

Mulligan squinted at the screen. The majority of it was taken up by Lafayette’s grin from where it was partially hidden behind the wheel of a large vintage car. It was impossible to tell which shone brighter – he or the vehicle.

“Do mine eyes deceive me,” asked Laurens, thrusting the phone in Mulligan’s face. “Or is that a Shelby Cobra?”

“I mean,” said Mulligan, who did not care for cars. “It’s maybe not a snake?”

Laurens rolled his eyes, reclaiming his phone to type a hurried reply. “That’s gotta be at least 1966,” he muttered to himself. “At _least_. Hamilton would know. I bet he creamed his pants when he saw this.”

“Hey,” Mulligan looked pained. “Language.”

“What the fuck does Washington need a car like that for?” Laurens demanded, entirely ignoring him. “Come to think of it, where does Washington _get_ money for a car like that for? Even with the bonus I can’t see him forking out for a pair of wheels on a president’s salary.”

“Maybe he sold all the shits he didn’t give,” Mulligan replied, sticking a pin in his mouth and concentrating as he threaded a sewing needle. “Like I wish I could do. About this conversation.”

Laurens kissed his teeth, slipping his phone back into his pocket and resettling behind his deck. “You’re rude.”

Mulligan didn’t reply, forgoing Laurens’ attention in favour of focusing intently on his sewing machine. Laurens huffed, eyes scanning briefly around the room. Beth had booked a space in a local playhouse for her collective to work on their stuff, and Laurens and Mulligan were largely using the time to prepare for the Dem-Gal gig. The entire corner they were working in was a strange, chaotic jumble of electronic spark plugs, leads and cables, tangled up with Mulligan’s latest project which was giving off strong vibes of Little Bo Peep. Laurens wanted desperately to make a joke about Electric Sheep but couldn’t take the risk that Mulligan wouldn’t laugh.

“Did you know Washington yells at Alex sometimes?” he asked when the question itched too much to ignore.

“Uh yeah,” replied Mulligan through a mouthful of pins. “But like, he’s his boss. They’re not gonna be fuckin’ Simba and Mufasa a hundred percent.”

“I can’t see it though,” Laurens persisted. “Like, I keep trying. But I don’t see it. Washington just seems like such a chill guy.”

“The world isn’t split into chill guys and Andy Draytons dude,” replied Mulligan, cursing as the thread evaded the needle for the third time. “Besides, you know how Hamilton is around grown-ups. I doubt he’s that forgiving of his mistakes.”

Laurens hummed in agreement, sliding his headphones around his neck. As far as he could remember, Hamilton had never once spoken badly of his father. Laurens would have chalked this down to the fact that the conversations they’d had about his parents had been extremely few; however, he had referred to his mother unfavourably on more than one occasion, despite how fiercely Laurens knew he’d loved her. He wondered if his almost prejudicial harshness towards older, and especially male, authority figures held any connection.

“Yo, my man!”

Laurens looked up to see Tyson, another one of Beth’s prodigies, making his way towards him. Laurens returned the obligatory fist bump, suppressing his irritation as Tyson immediately made himself at home and began picking interestedly at Laurens’ equipment.

“What are you working on?” he asked curiously.

“Ya know Rose Rouge by St Germain?” Laurens replied. “Thinking of mashing it up with something.”

“Nice,” said Tyson appreciatively. He turned around, giving a small start upon noticing Mulligan for the first time, currently decked in reels of lilac lace like a particularly chintzy Christmas tree. “Sorry man, didn’t see you there.”

“’S fine,” muttered Mulligan, squinting with concentration and barely hearing him.

Tyson frowned at Mulligan and then gave a short laugh, looking questioningly at Laurens. “What’s this brother doing?”

“Uh,” Laurens stared at him, unsure how it would be possible to avoid giving a sarcastic answer. “Tax returns?”

“Come on man,” Tyson poked Mulligan jovially in the back. “A brother doing, what is this? Sewing? Fashion? You gay or something?”

Laurens felt very much as though someone had opened a door, letting in terrific gusts of cold winter wind. It pricked holes in his skin, freezing the blood in his veins so fast it was painful, so that he couldn’t move or even speak.

Mulligan sat up straight in his chair. He pushed his sewing machine away from him and turned around to face Tyson slowly, his own gaze very nearly as icy.

“I think I heard someone call your name,” he said calmly.

 Tyson’s eyes flashed with apprehension. After sending another perplexed glance at Laurens’ pale, wide-eyed face he raised his palms in self-defence and shuffled away with his hands in his pockets. When he was gone, Mulligan turned back to Laurens, addressing him softly. “You ok?”

Laurens nodded tersely. “Yes,” he said through gritted teeth, and began to untangle his cables.


	13. Do What You Gotta Do - Nina Simone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i loved you better than your own kin did

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a whole flashback of a chapter whaaaat
> 
> I am really sorry for the shittiness in updating...i finally worked my way through the block to come out at the end with this chapter which...might not do a lot for you guys tbh, but which I found really helpful and weirdly sort of liberating to write so i hope u enjoy it anyway

_One year ago_

Mulligan slipped his phone into the back pocket of his jeans, crossing his arms over his chest. It was as much a defensive gesture as it was guarding himself from the cold; although it had been mild when he’d left the apartment, the thin t-shirt and leather jacket he’d pulled on had been more in the interests of style than practicality. He was paying for it now, standing outside an ill-lit 7/11, with no respite from the winter chill creeping into the wide sleeves of his jacket except for the cover of the gas station.

The worst part was that he couldn’t complain. As he’d been leaving the house Cork had taken one look at him and snorted before making some witty remark about not wearing enough clothes. Mulligan had returned it with the finger, but had been unable to suppress the flicker of doubt as he’d walked out the door. It didn’t matter; a pointless emotion, self-doubt was detrimental to the point of fatal among this particular group. You had to commit to your decisions, as a matter of survival. So Mulligan couldn’t have taken a scarf had he wanted to.

The longer he stood freezing his bollocks off outside the 7/11 however, he was starting to think that maybe he should have bitten the bullet, pride be damned.

“What time did you give them?” he asked Townsend, who checked his watch.

“Uh,” he replied, in a voice that didn’t exactly fill Mulligan with confidence. “Nine thirty?”

“Are you asking, or telling?”

Townsend kissed his teeth. “Come on man,” he answered tiredly. “Don’t be a bitch.”

“You getting cold?” Cork asked teasingly.

Mulligan cut his eyes at him. “Nope.”

Cork tittered smugly. It was a high-pitched, childish laugh, and extremely grating. Mulligan grit his teeth against it, restraining from pulling his jacket tighter around himself or pulling up the zip.

“How much did that get-up cost you, anyway?” Ali pinched the corner of his jacket between his finger and thumb, flapping it up and down.

“$170,” Mulligan replied, jerking out of Ali’s grip and expecting the sleeve casually. “I gets paid, mans gets slayed.”

Ali whistled lowly. “Damn, son,” he exclaimed. “Bet you coulda got Yeezys for cheaper, and you wouldn’t have ended up looking like my Aunt Sharlene.”

“Why the fuck did you get it in _purple?”_ Cork asked, erupting into another fit of giggles. “You think you’re Prince or something? You gonna splash out on a Raspberry Beret?”

“Fact is I could if I wanted to,” Mulligan retorted. “Benefits of having a real job, instead of waiting on my cousin phoning in too high to serve pizza,” and turning to Townsend: “Or selling overpriced pot to white boys.”

“Hey,” Townsend frowned at him, looking startled and betrayed. “Lay off. I already told you, it’s the last time. I just wanna get rid of the rest of this shit before college.”

Mulligan shrugged tiredly. “You know how I feel about it, man,” he said, spreading his palms. “Not about to repeat my thoughts on the subject.”

“Good,” sniped Townsend. “Because I don’t recall asking.”

Mulligan was able to keep quiet for approximately five seconds before the effort proved too much. “I’m just saying,” he said, unable to stop himself. “You got prisons overflowing with brothers, our own guys getting locked up left right and centre for petty shit, the government and our parents shitting on us endlessly…telling us we aint never gonna amount to anything more than drug dealers and pimps and you wanna prove them right with this…adolescent nonsense.”

“It wasn’t adolescent nonsense when you were smoking it,” Townsend barked.

“There’s a difference, and you know it.”

“Man, what is with you,” Ali tutted. “You get yourself a fresh wardrobe and a sewing machine and suddenly you’re Louis Farrakhan?”

“More like Louis Spence,” quipped Cork, with another smirk at Mulligan’s jacket.

“Look, it aint like that,” Mulligan said hastily, ignoring Cork. “I just feel weird about it.”

“Yeah man, I know,” Townsend rolled his eyes. “And I hear you. It’s the last one, ok? A couple of preppy assholes from Columbia. Hardly Pablo fucking Escobar.” 

“Speaking of,” said Ali, peering towards the end of the road. “Isn’t that them now?”

Mulligan followed his gaze to where a group of white boys were slowly emerging out of the dark. As they came closer he took in the crisp collars and cuffs of their expensive coats, designer labels emblazoned on the front of perfectly pressed pockets like medals of service. Despite the fact that it was very far from his style, he couldn’t help but feel a stab of envy. They stopped outside the 7/11, keeping a wary distance from the rest of the group, until their leader took it upon himself to play ambassador.

“My man!” he exclaimed as he approached Townsend, lips moving experimentally around the words like they were foreign to his tongue. “Robert. How are you this evening?”

“Hey Tim,” Townsend greeted him graciously, stepping out of the light of the shop.

They bumped fists – Townsend managing, Mulligan noted with admiration, to keep a straight face while doing so. He slipped the weed out of his pocket, so fast that to Mulligan it was almost imperceptible, into the lightly sweating palm. Tim Pickering handed him the money and, transaction done, the two groups nodded at each other; Mulligan turned away, ready to end the farce of acquaintance when Pickering spoke again.

“What are you boys doing now?” he asked. “We were thinking of getting pizza.”

Tallmadge looked back towards his group, eyebrow raised in a silent question. Cork shrugged. “I could do pizza.”

Pickering clapped his hands. “Great!” he announced, grinning like nothing in the world could make him happier. “I know a fantastic place, it’s just around the corner.”

“Joseph knows it,” Ali snickered, nudging Cork who scowled and flipped him off.

Mulligan fell into reluctant step beside the students, thinking there were things that he would really rather be doing than sitting in a greasy pizza joint, staring lustfully after a Ralph Lauren parka such as the guy next to him was wearing. Mulligan gave him the once over, realising as he did so that the wearer in question was not white but light-skinned – Hispanic, maybe. Long dark hair fell onto his shoulders in tight curls from beneath his beanie, possibly suggesting Afro heritage. He looked almost as fed up as Mulligan felt.

“You’re not hungry?” Mulligan prompted sardonically, trying for conversation.

The guy shrugged, bored. “I already ate,” he replied.

Mulligan tutted sympathetically. “Seems like your boys could have taken a vote.”

“They’re not my boys,” came the surly response. “They’re just some jerks I hang out with.”

Mulligan blinked at him, surprised by the venom in his voice. The guy didn’t apologise for what was, by any measure, a pretty abrupt conversation-stopper and Mulligan thought it best to let the effort rest.

They reached the pizza place. The boy headed in before Mulligan, holding the door open for him. Once under the blaze of the fluorescent lighting his gaze dropped, landing on Mulligan’s jacket.

“Wavy garms,” he commented.

Mulligan blinked at him. “What?”

“Cool clothes.”

“Oh,” Mulligan glanced offhandedly down at his outfit, as if the casual compliment hadn’t completely made his night. “Thanks.”

“Where did you get your pants?” he asked, gesturing at the checkered flares Mulligan was sporting.

“I made them,” replied Mulligan.

“You _made_ them?!”

“Yeah.”

“They’re fucking cool.”

“Thanks,” Mulligan grinned, head swelling so much it was a wonder the tiny parlour still fit him.

“You’re into fashion?” the boy prompted him.

Mulligan made a modest, bobbing movement with his head. “You could say that,” he admitted. “It’s my major.”

“That’s cool.”

Mulligan snorted. “You’re the first brother in this place to say so.”

The boy shrugged. “I’m also cool.”

Mulligan laughed. He was about to ask the guy’s name when a loud voice barked out from in front of the till, ringing across the tiny space. “Laurens!” yelled Tim Pickering. “You want jalapenos, _si?_ Es correcto?”

Beside him, his friend smirked. “Si, si,” he echoed in heavily accented, high-pitched parody. “Jalapenos por Lorenzo!”

The group promptly started cackling. Laurens folded his arms over his chest, a deep curl appearing in his lip. Mulligan raised an eyebrow at him.

“Dude,” he said, gesturing with his thumb. “You gonna stand for that?”

Laurens shrugged. “No point,” he deadpanned. “They don’t mean anything by it. They’re just fucking dumb.”

Mulligan looked sceptical. “That’s a pretty indulgent excuse.”

Laurens shrugged again.

They hung back while their respective friends placed their orders, Mulligan eventually caving when his stomach began to rumble traitorously. When it came he offered Laurens a slice which he declined, gaze flitting warily round the room before hesitantly taking the seat next to Mulligan.

“You go Columbia?” Mulligan asked him.

Laurens nodded. “You guys as well?”

“Just me,” Mulligan clarified, jerking his head at his friends. “These are my boys from home.”

“That’s cool,” said Laurens politely. “Must be nice to have your friends so nearby.”

Mulligan made a non-committal noise as Cork’s giggle broke out once again over the table. “What about you?” he asked with a glance towards Laurens’ group. “How do you know these guys?”

“Just from school,” Laurens replied indifferently. “We have some classes together, and our parents know each other, so.”

“Sounds like firm foundations for a friendship,” said Mulligan dryly.

“Right?” Laurens laughed hollowly. “Nah, they were okay at first. But, I dunno. I feel like I have less and less patience for them as time goes on.”

 “Can’t imagine why,” remarked Mulligan, watching as Pickering became hotly embroiled in a debate of new Kanye versus old.

The hours passed strangely, first one and then the other. Mulligan thought it had something to do with the universe, struggling to contain the sheer size of two realities within the compression of such a small space, illuminated by the otherworldly glare of the fluorescent lighting flickering on and off at certain intervals, as if signalling a glitch in the time-space continuum. The bell above the door tinkled as customers trickled in and out; a man with a dog, an old woman in a raggedy, trailing sweater, a laughing group of drunk girls. Mulligan talked with Laurens, a rambling, transitory conversation that ranged from architecture to basketball and at the same time seemed to cover nothing at all – each word disappearing like hot oil spitting into the atmosphere until before he quite knew it, it was midnight, and most of Laurens’ friends had gone.

Pickering clapped a hand on Laurens’ shoulder. “Time to go champ,” he said, and made for the door.

Laurens got to his feet, pausing with the tips of his index fingers resting on the table.

“It was good to meet you,” he told Mulligan. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Sure thing,” said Mulligan.

Laurens hesitated, opening his mouth like he was about to say something else. Then one of his friends called his name and he left, closing the door to the pizza parlour carefully behind him so as not to ring the bell too loudly.

 

A lot of people say “I’ll see you around”; Mulligan had said it himself countless times with little intention or extreme desire of seeing the person in question ever again. But Laurens he did actually see around. Townsend made it his business to be on good terms with everyone – as a result, the universe ended up attempting to squeeze two realities into that same compressed space more times than Mulligan thought could possibly be good for it. He did not particularly enjoy the infrequent occasions where the two groups would cross paths and made little attempt to disguise his contempt for this particular crew. But Laurens was okay. In fact, the more they bumped into each other the more Mulligan liked him, until it got to the point that he began to consider him a good, if relatively casual, friend.

To make it official, one night after a few drinks at a bar off campus, Mulligan invited Laurens to come back to his apartment with the others. Laurens’ face lit up immediately at the request, as if this is what he had been waiting on tenterhooks for these past few weeks. The joyful expression was gone, however, within approximately five minutes of opening the door.

“Oh, sweet poster,” Laurens stopped in front of a blow-up photo of Elvis Presley, the words ‘A hero for most’ emblazoned in red where his eyes should have been. “I love Elvis.”

“Uh, bro,” Ali said, trading a hesitant glance with Cork. “That’s not an Elvis poster. It’s PE.”

Laurens blinked uncomprehendingly. “…Physical Education?”

Mulligan dropped his head into his hands as Cork crowed with disbelieving delight.

“Public Enemy,” Townsend laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, as always trying valiantly to keep a straight face. “The full lyric is ‘Elvis was a hero for most, but he never meant shit to me because he was straight up racist as fuck’.”

Instantly, Laurens’ face went as fiercely tomato red as the Michael Jordans on his feet. “Oh,” he said, voice small against Cork and Ali’s snickers. “I knew that.”

Mulligan said nothing, looking anywhere other than at Laurens’ face as Cork dissolved into another peel of helpless laugher.

 

The following evenings passed easier, if nothing else because Laurens mostly stuck himself to Mulligan’s vinyl player. While the others teased and ribbed on each other he rifled through Mulligan’s music collection, entertaining himself by switching out record for record, providing the perfect backdrop for the others to scour through the dirt of nostalgia, dredging up insults and old wounds with their most boorish stories from high school.

“Man, I still remember the look on your mom’s face,” Cork pointed at Mulligan, hiccoughing slightly from his fourth beer. “When you told her you didn’ wanna fix cabel, you wan’d to do fashion. _Fashion!”_

“Seriously bro,” Ali leant in closely, gazing at Mulligan with grave intensity. “Don’t you feel bad for her? Like…you know she wanted a boy, right?”

 _“Do what you gotta dooooo,”_ Laurens sang loudly and unsubtly to Nina Simone, reverberating slow as honey from the rattling disk of Mulligan’s player. _“Come back and see me when you can...”_

“You can say what you like,” Mulligan’s face strained with the effort of forcing a smile. “We’ll see who’s the real winner when I’m the only dude on a majority female course.”

_“Man, I can understand why it might be kind of hard to love a girl like me…I don’t blame you much for wanting to be free…I just wanted you to know…”_

“That’s if they don’t all assume you’re gay straight off,” Townsend pointed out. “Better sew yourself some looser pants, son.”

_“I loved you better than your own kin did…from the very start…it’s my own fault what happens to my heart…you see I’d always known you’d go-”_

“Hey Laurens, man. You mind turning the music down a little?”

 

“Why do you let your friends do that?” asked Laurens one day.

They were hanging out in Mulligan’s room. Both of them were a little drunk, eight or nine empty cans of Budweiser littering the threadbare carpet. Laurens was laying upside down on Mulligan’s bed, his head close to the vinyl player. He had a theory that if you turned everything vertically, you could pick up on things that you’d miss out on otherwise. Mulligan was only ninety-nine percent sure that what he was hearing was the blood rushing into his head.

“Like what?” Mulligan asked, glancing up from the sleeve he was stitching to frown at Laurens.

“Shit over everything you like,” said Laurens.

“I shit over everything you like,” said Mulligan.

“Ya, but it’s different,” Laurens rolled himself up into a crouching position so that he was looking properly at Mulligan. “When you shit on techno, it’s not like, a dig at me.”

“You’re right. It’s a dig at Detroit.”

“Come on man,” Laurens stared at him challengingly. “Don’t be evasive.”

Mulligan laughed out loud. It was blunt and shallow, not a particularly pleasant sound. “Are you kidding me?” he demanded. “Are you actually serious right now? You’re going to talk to me about _my_ friends when you spend half your time running after people who literally call you ‘Rico’?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t hang out with them anymore,” Laurens replied coldly. “And I don’t see why you have to put up with your friends calling you gay and shit. How can you just sit there and take it?”

“Because…I don’t take it as an insult?” Mulligan raised an eyebrow, putting the sleeve to one side. “Let’s be real, a lot of the dudes who make it in fashion are gay. If anything, it’s a compliment. Means they’re putting me up there with the legends.”

His tone was jovial, flippant. Still, Laurens stared at him, a look of sheer disbelief on his face. “You can’t be serious,” he stated.

Mulligan looked at him quizzically. “There are worse things to be called, man,” he said. “You’re not a homophobe, are you?”

“I…no,” Laurens bristled, rolling his shoulders defensively like a bird ruffling his feathers. “People should do whatever they wanna do, I guess.”

Mulligan nodded. “Good,” he said. He picked back up his sleeve.

Laurens was quiet for a long time, and Mulligan thought maybe he had fallen asleep before he suddenly spoke again. “You talk different around me than with them as well.”

“My God Laurens, do you want me to punch you?”

“Yes,” said Laurens sulkily, feeling a little bit like being a brat.

Mulligan mimed taking a swipe, fist just glancing the edge of Laurens’ jaw in a play of mock-contact. As his knuckle brushed the edge of his cheek-bone Laurens caught the fist in the flat of his palm, curling his fingers around it. He squeezed it tight, lowering it into the space just below his chin before pressing his mouth to the skin. Mulligan stared frowningly, watching what was happening with studied detachment, like it was an interesting if vaguely unsettling documentary. Then Laurens, realising what he was doing, dropped his hand. Said “I’m so drunk” and turned away, reaching for another record to put on the vinyl player.

In the morning nothing was mentioned, or any other mornings after that.

 

Laurens did not want Mulligan to punch him, because actually, at this point in time his number of friends had taken a pretty significant dip. Whatever, though. Less than a month had passed after making the official decision to ditch Pickering’s group for good before he was reflecting that maybe, _maybe_ it was better proportionately to have just the one friend like Hercules, or Lafayette, even if it meant a lot less choice of who to hang out with on a Friday night. You do what you gotta do after all, even if that sometimes means shedding a few skins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again to all u guys commenting on not only on this but my other stuff as well. You're the real MVPs.


	14. Two Thousand and Seventeen - Four Tet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there's snakes in the garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which i am both Tallmadge and Hamilton

_BT: Where are you?_

_AH: 10 mins_

_BT: You said you were leaving half an hour ago_

_AH: Im omw chill_

_still don’t get why you had me trek all the way across town_

_BT: You’re the one who said u wanted a secure location_

_AH: yeah, meaning not ur apartment_

_Literally anywhere else would have been fine_

_BT: I’m not going to apologise for being careful_

_Did u take the bus_

_AH: nah subway_

_BT: What route_

_AH: Lexington av_

_BT: …_

_…_

_AH: What_

_BT: Nothing…._

_It’s just not the most secure_

_AH: jfc_

_are u actually serious_

_BT: I’m just saying_

_AH: Wtf Ben_

_BT: I’m just SAYING_

_AH: This isnt gdam 39 steps. Do u wanna triangulate my phone maybe? Check if im being followed?_

_BT: Triangulating your phone only shows where you’ve been not anyone who might be following you_

_AH: NO ONE IS FOLLOWING ME JESUS FKING CHRIST_

_smh_

_BT: Whatever. Just hurry up_

_AH: i’ll be 15 mins max. Keep ur panties on_

Tallmadge rolled his eyes and put his phone face down in front of him. Across the table, Abe Woodhull was looking at him sympathetically.

“Running late?” he asked nonchalantly, taking a sip of his coffee.

“I don’t understand,” said Tallmadge through gritted teeth. “Why people can’t just be on time.”

Abraham shrugged. “Not everyone can have your impeccable organisation.”

“Just set a timer,” Tallmadge insisted. “Add a reminder to your phone. It’s not hard.”

He leaned back in his chair, throwing an irritable glance at the door even though he knew Hamilton had yet to appear through it. Resting on the table his hands twitched for his phone; he resisted the urge to check it. Abraham observed the movement, mouth twitching a little at its familiarity. Noticing, Tallmadge cringed, slipping his hands into his lap and fidgeting with them.

“Sorry,” he threw out.

Abe raised an eyebrow. “What for?” he asked.

Tallmadge laughed humourlessly. “I’m not sure,” he admitted.

“Then don’t apologise.”

Tallmadge laughed again, as if at the notion that it could really be that easy. Abe smiled affectionately, having been friends with him long enough to know very well that it wasn’t. Tallmadge took a sip of his tea, trying to calm himself down, and resumed the jittering of his leg. 

Thirteen and a half minutes later, the bell above the door chimed an announcement and Hamilton walked in, pulling down his scarf so that he could peer more effectively round the Starbucks. Spotting Tallmadge he waved cheerfully, completely oblivious to his sour expression, and hopped over to the till, bouncing slightly from one foot to the other as if seeking to dispel nervous energy. Tallmadge constantly marvelled how Hamilton succeeded in keeping such a tight rein over his own anxiety, always managing to channel it into something productive, into action. It was about as much as he could manage to keep from knocking his tea over.

“Gentlemen,” greeted Hamilton, approaching their table with his coffee and setting it down next to Tallmadge. “How’re things?”

“They’d be better if you met when you say you’re going to,” Ben muttered.

“Time is an oppressive construct, Ben,” Hamilton chastised him. “Designed to constrain society and perpetrate the idea that there are set modes of being.”

“Oh wow,” said Abe.

“Abraham, this is Alexander,” said Tallmadge tiredly.

“Hamilton,” Hamilton tagged on, smiling at Abe with enthusiasm. “Great to meet you. Thanks for making it.”

“I should be thanking you,” the corner of Abe’s mouth quirked. “For a second there I thought Benjamin was gonna blow.”

Hamilton peered at Tallmadge’s face, scrutinising him like a doctor. “You do look quite stressed Ben,” he commented. “You wanna pop a prope?”

“I’m good.”

“Are you sure? I have enough.”

“You keep it.”

Hamilton shrugged. “Suit yourself.“ He reached into his pocket and snapped a propranolol tablet from its wrapper, Tallmadge and Abe watching aghast as he washed it down with a generous swallow of coffee.

“Please tell me you did not just chase your anxiety medication with coffee,” Abe said, looking pleadingly at Tallmadge.

“I don’t like how it makes me sleepy,” Hamilton explained. “I’m out by three pm without it. Can’t get anything done.”

He leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the table. “Do you wanna get straight to business?” he asked. “Or make small-talk first?”

“Abe knows Mulligan’s friend,” Tallmadge told him. “Robert Townsend.”

“No kidding?” Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “How come?”

Abe shrugged evasively. “Met him once when I was in New York.”

“You visit often?” asked Hamilton. 

Abe bobbed his head in a so-so gesture. “A lot of my father’s work is here,” he replied. “I help him out sometimes.”

Hamilton took a nonchalant sip of his coffee. “I guess he’s had a fair few cases with the NYPD, huh?” he commented idly. “Know any of the guys down there?”

“Well the small-talk lasted long,” Tallmadge rolled his eyes.

“I don’t really do small talk,” Hamilton told Abe apologetically. “Call it short man syndrome. I’m hard or I’m at home.”

“That’s not…whatever.”

“As it happens, yeah,” Abe confirmed. “He does. Kinda makes a point of it. Cops, lawyers, politicians – he’ll lick the boots off anyone on the top side of the law.”

“Nothing wrong with a healthy power kink,” said Hamilton, ignoring Tallmadge’s wince. “Who am I to judge. Or magistrate. Haha. Anyway. I don’t know how much Ben told you, but we…well I…kinda need your help with something. A friend of ours had a pretty unpleasant run in with the police recently-”

“-John Laurens,” Abe supplied. “Your boyfriend.”

“Yeah, that guy,” Hamilton confirmed. “And I was wondering if you could maybe find out what their names are, and the names of the guys who hurt Jamal Curtis. Ask your dad, see if there’s anything juicy there along the lines of corruption or…I don’t know…institutional racism…”

“Are you trying to OJ Simpson this Curtis trial?” Abe cut him off.

“Ok, what is with you Setauket people?” Hamilton jabbed his finger. “Did your high school make you take a special class in observational awareness? Because honestly, where can I enrol I must have been to this Starbucks a hundred times and I _still_ managed to get lost on the way here.”

“Alex, what the hell,” Tallmadge glared at him evilly. “You did _not_ tell me this was the plan.”

Hamilton shrugged. “I left it up to conjecture,” he replied. “And to answer your question Abraham, I am trying to Stephen Lawrence the Curtis trial. I don’t intend to frame the NYPD for something they didn’t do but to establish a pattern using actual evidence…if it exists. If it doesn’t, I swear I’ll go right on back to Twitter polls and waving banners outside the courthouse.”

“Somehow I find that hard to believe,” Tallmadge narrowed his eyes. “You’re not just doing this so the Curtises win their appeal. You’re doing this because you’re mad about what happened to Laurens.”

“Revenge is a dish best served with fries,” replied Hamilton cheerfully. “I’m mad about a lot of things, this way at least I save time. See there you go Ben, I can show interest in the things _you_ like.”

He rapped his fingers on the table again and grinned. There was a slight manic edge to it, and a glint in his eye that sat at disconcerting odds with his chirpy mood. It was more than a little unsettling and Tallmadge found himself shooting a wary look at Abe who was chewing his lip thoughtfully.

“When’s the trial?” he asked.

“Two weeks,” Hamilton replied.

Abraham nodded. “I can do it,” he said. “My dad likes to feel important. Shouldn’t be too difficult to get information from him, so long as I do a little ego-stroking.”

“Abe,” Tallmadge spoke urgently. “Think about this. What happens if the source of the information leaks out? Your father could lose his job.”

Abe shrugged. “He picked a side,” he replied. “I’m sure all he has to do is flash his Blue Lives Matter badge and one of his friends in the GOP will get him another.”

“Wow,” Hamilton blinked, taken aback. “That is…cold. Even for me.”

Abe smiled thinly in a way that just stopped shy of being ironic. “Anything for the cause,” he said. “I consider him a traitor. Brothers have got to stick together, you know. Fight the good fight.”

“Riiight,” Hamilton drew out slowly, scrutinising Abe’s face for something he might have missed. “When you say ‘brothers’…”

“I’m Irish,” Abe clarified.

“Oh, ok,” said Hamilton. “So not…black, then.”

Abe shrugged non-committally. “Depends on your definition of Black,” he said. “I always put it on my personal data forms.”

“You _really_ shouldn’t-”

“Okay,” Ben interrupted before Hamilton could start lecturing his own spy on relative oppression. “Are we done with this? Not to hurry you guys, but we said we’d meet up with Caleb and Anna in a little while. You can come if you want.”

Hamilton shook his head. “No thanks,” he replied. “As much fun as fifth-wheeling a friendship reunion does sound, I have a uh…tutor meeting I gotta get to.”

At once, Tallmadge’s eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “What tutor meeting?” he asked suspiciously. “I thought all your tutors were on office hours during exams.”

“Uh yeah, they are,” Hamilton answered, scratching the back of his neck. “But they let me book a slot, you know. Because I’m such an anxious mess and all. And also, charming.”

“Oh right,” Tallmadge rolled his eyes. “I forgot you could be that.”

“Goes a long way, Tallmadge,” Hamilton replied, clapping him on the shoulder as he got to his feet. _“Mòran taing,_ Abraham. Thanks a lot for agreeing to this.”

“That’s Scottish-Gaelic,” Abe checked him.

Hamilton swore. “I only know a few words,” he said, shaking his head in self-shame. “I assumed it was the same all over. I gotta go to the toilet, don’t switch my coffee out for decaf.”

With a warning glance at Tallmadge, he wondered off in search of the toilet. When he was gone Abe took a long sip of his tea, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline.

“Racist,” he muttered.

*

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” André whined.

They were in Laurens’ room. Tallmadge had been out all afternoon visiting friends from Setauket which was just as well – having got past the initial ‘ideas’ stage he and André had actually started to make music. It wasn’t…bad. To be honest, it was so far from Laurens’ thing he didn’t feel he had much right to pass critical judgement. It was more the fact that he didn’t like the person either Tallmade or André became whenever someone passed them an acoustic instrument.

“What about this guy,” Laurens brought up his Facebook page, checking it matched the name on the list the bouncer had given him. “Jackson. Aw man, he has a Confederate flag as his cover photo, he could be jaxx29.”   

“Or,” André suggested. “He could be literally any moron in America.”

“He’s mutual friends with Drayton,” Laurens pointed out. “And some of the guys we’ve already found. Amherst, Standish, Pizarro…”

“And Lafayette,” André pointed out.

“Lafayette knows everyone,” Laurens waved dismissively. “Let’s check his Twitter, see if he’s ever crossed swords with Alex.”

André obliged. Scrolling through his feed it was mostly alt-right memes and posts from other unsavoury accounts, including Meninist ones. Although it didn’t look like he’d every battled with Hamilton directly, there were a number of retweets in favour of the other side in several conflicts.

“I’m gonna put him down as a definite,” said Laurens, scrawling a star next to his name.

“What exactly are you planning on doing with this information?” André appealed.

“Use it,” Laurens bristled, not having actually got much further than this. He was well aware that he didn’t exactly have Hamilton skills when it came to strategy. He would ask Burr or Angelica for help, except that he would rather die. “Once we make the account, it’ll come together. Is it too obvious if we call ourselves ‘odysseus123’? I know it’s pretentious, but I never could resist a good Trojan horse analogy.”

“It’s not so much obvious as stupid and dumb,” André blew out a breath, running a hand through his beautifully tousled hair. “I really, _really_ do not have a good feeling about this.” 

“Come on man, you’re a reporter,” Laurens clucked his tongue at him. “You gotta get used to this. Going undercover, crossing into enemy lines, all that shit.”

“These are people who _know_ us though,” André pointed out. “People in our lives. People who could hurt us.”

“People who could hurt _Alex,”_ Laurens countered. “If we don’t get to them first.” And when André still looked uncomfortable, “Listen, dude. I don’t want to make you do anything you’re not comfortable with-”

“No, no,” André shook his head. “I’m down, I am. You’re right – it’s sensible to keep track of their movements in case they really are planning anything serious.” He began to fill out the personal details form. “Let’s call ourselves ‘Anderson’.”

“Oh cool,” said Laurens. “Like ‘André’, but less fancy.”

“Yeah,” André glanced up from the screen to grin at him. “But also, like Mr Anderson. From the Matrix.”

Laurens felt a matching grin split his face. _“Nice.”_

André nodded, resuming typing. Content to let him handle the more technical side of things. Laurens lay back across the bed, grabbing a basketball and holding it between his feet. His date with Hamilton was approaching, as was the trustee dinner. Thinking about both sent waves of nausea shuddering through his stomach. So far, he and Hamilton had only existed within a very specific sphere, enough of a bubble that he could pretend it wasn’t whenever he stepped outside it. Taking their relationship into the public eye would destroy that, turn it from something that was real only to a select few into something quite different. It also didn’t help that his father would be there.

“You know Alexander hasn’t seen any of the Matrix films,” he said conversationally.

André kissed his teeth in irritation. “That’s shameful.”

“I know right?” Laurens hummed in agreement. “He doesn’t have the patience. He can’t really get into things he doesn’t understand straight away.”

“You guys are different like that,” André observed.

Laurens nodded. “Ya.” He kicked the basketball up into the air and caught it. “Can I play you a song? He didn’t like it, but I think you might.”

“Go for it, man.”

Laurens hooked up his speaker. The slow beat filled the room steadily like water in a container, eerie and captivating, pushing you up and pulling you under at the same time. André tapped his finger to the slow, harpsicord-like trickling of strings while Laurens leant back into the pillows, closed his eyes and let himself float.

“This is really nice,” André spoke after a while. “Who is it?”

“Four Tet,” Laurens replied, still with his eyes closed. “I tried to go see them at a festival once, but some dude got crushed at the front and nearly died so we couldn’t get in.”

André pulled a face. “People can be jerks in crowds,” he shook his head. “Mob mentality or something.” He paused, nodding along to the music before speaking again. “If they’re ever around I’ll go see them with you.”

“Yeah?” Laurens cracked an eye open. “Ok. Cool. I’ll keep a look out.” He hesitated, wondering if this was an anxiety he wanted to voice out loud and by doing so, make it real, before deciding fuck it. “Alex and I are going on our first date soon.”

“That’s great,” said André with feeling. “Haven’t you guys been going out for over a month?”

“Ya, but all we really do is hang out,” Laurens explained, uncomfortably aware that this was code for ‘illegal streaming and sex’. “If we actually leave the house it’s always impromptu. Like catching a movie or getting dinner, or whatever.”

“So where are you going?”

“Basketball game,” Laurens clarified. “Also we have this fancy trustee dinner thing Washington invited him too. I’m there as his date.”

“Oh sick.”

“My father will be there.”

“Oh shit.”

Laurens blew out a frustrated breath, staring over the basketball clenched between his legs up at the ceiling. André was watching him, brow furrowed with a mixture of sympathy and something else Laurens couldn’t work out.

“Are you gonna tell him?” he asked. "That you're..."

Laurens shrugged. “If we get married, or something.” He let out a hollow laugh at the unlikeliness of the prospect. “I haven’t actually told that many people. Most of my friends already knew.”

“Why is that?”

Laurens shrugged again. “I don’t know. It’s not something I want to talk about. It’s not something I particularly like about myself.” He kicked the ball once again into the air, only just catching it on the edge of his shin before it rolled off the bed. “How would you tell your parents?” he choked out, knowing it was a fruitless question. “If you had to.”

André was silent a long time before replying. “I guess…with my folks, there wouldn’t be much of a need,” he said slowly. “They’re liberal intellectuals. I don’t know if we’d ever have to have that conversation.” His expression shifted into apologetic. “Sorry. That wasn’t very helpful.”

Laurens sighed. “No, it’s fine.” He blinked hard, resisted running a hand over his face. “Like…obviously I don’t envy Alexander for being an orphan, or anything. But it does make it easier not having to account to anyone. He’s never had any trouble with this sort of stuff.”

“Do you know that for sure?” André raised an eyebrow sceptically.

Laurens shrugged. “Look at him.”

André grinned. “Yes please.”

Laurens threw the basketball at him. André let out a very unmannish shriek, holding his arms up instinctively as it bounced off him.

“Dude, what the hell was that,” Laurens frowned in disgust.

“I’m a lover not a fighter,” said André with dignity.

“How’s that going, by the way?”

André pulled a face. “Let’s just say that all things considered, I’d rather be in your shoes,” he paused before tacking on, “Or Alexander’s.”

Laurens’ eyebrows shot up quizzically, a grin nudging his cheeks. “Or Alexander’s?” he prompted.

André rolled his eyes, a slight blush creeping into his face. “I just mean that you both have nice boyfriends,” he explained. “I like you both. You’re both nice.”

“Well thank you, John,” Laurens smirked, turning his gaze back to the ceiling. “I’ll be sure to pass on the message, that we both have nice boyfriends, who are nice.”

André looked boredly at him, the blush still not quite leaving his face.

Laurens sat up. “Come on,” he clapped his hands. “We should get back to work. Before the snakes in the garden start rearing their ugly heads.”

“Uh…John?” said André, staring wide-eyed at the laptop screen, tilted at a disjointed angle in his lap. “It might be a little late for that.”

“What?” Laurens demanded sharply, flying across the bed over to where André was sitting. “What do you mean?”

André pointed. Laurens bent forward to peer at the screen, eyes darting from side to side as they scrolled through the chatroom messages and widening once he realised what André was talking about.

_“Shit.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Abe/Ham exchange is based on a irl experience at work where a client insisted on checking the Black box on his personal information form because he was Irish and then got very offended when i suggested he did not do that


	15. The Warning - Hot Chip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a warning I'll spell it out for you

“Hey,” Eliza squeezed his hand warmly before sliding into the chair next to Hamilton. “You’re here early.”

“Hm?” Hamilton looked up from his phone, resuming the violent shaking of his leg. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, I’m on time. I came before it starts. I guess that’s what you meant.”

“That’s what I meant,” Eliza reassured him.

Hamilton nodded. “Fair enough.” He pushed his thumb jerkily across the screen, scrolling through Instagram without really looking at it. “There’s probably a special kind of Hell for people who burst in late to church. Right next to people who talk at the movies, and clap when the plane lands.”

“Do people still do that?”

“They did when I came over,” Hamilton assured her. “To be fair, it was a pretty bumpy flight – hurricane season, and all. And it was just after Miranda so people coming from the Virgin islands were still pretty on edge. But even so.”

“You’re shaking your leg,” Eliza put her hand gently on Hamilton’s knee.

Hamilton looked down at it with surprise, as if it hadn’t existed before the touch of heat spreading from Eliza’s small palm. “Sorry,” he apologised, making an effort to stop. “Nervous habit.”

“It’s okay,” Eliza smiled at him, thankfully not saying that it was alright to be nervous.

“Hello everyone,” came a cheery, affable voice as the pastor appeared, taking his place round the circle. “I think this is most of us, isn’t it? Shall we make a start and then anyone who arrives later can just filter in.”

“‘Filter in’,” Hamilton repeated in an undertone to Eliza. “Like he doesn’t know about the special Hell.”

“Let’s begin with a prayer,” the pastor offered his hands to the people either side of him. Dutifully, Hamilton took Eliza’s and the woman’s on his right. “Holy Father. Thank you for bringing us here today after what has been for many of us, another hard week. The trials of modern life can be heavy and wearisome, and for some they can be difficult to talk about. We thank you for the opportunity to join together, and share in each other’s troubles and burdens under the light of your love, that they might become all the lighter for it. Amen.”

Hamilton’s lips murmured the word as he released Eliza and the woman’s hands, slinking them back for his phone in his lap. Eliza valiantly pretended not to notice, however the woman on his right pursed her lips at him in a way that made it very clear what part of Hell she thought he belonged.

The pastor smiled at the small group, beaming at each face like he was making a point not to forget it, as though they weren’t the same faces who had been coming for weeks.

“Would anyone like to start?” he asked, his voice gently prompting. “Anyone have anything they would like to share? Remember this is safe place, utterly free of judgement.”

He paused, the tiny corner of the Church swelling with silence as he waited patiently for a volunteer. Hamilton kept his head bent and his phone beneath his knees, trying to hide the fact that he was texting.

“Alex,” the pastor’s voice nudged him and Hamilton’s head shot up. “I think last week you were telling us about how much things had improved recently? Have there been any new developments you’d like to contribute?”

“Uh…” Hamilton began, shamed under the pastor’s friendly gaze and stuffing his phone guiltily back into his pocket. “Sure. Why not.” He cleared his throat, sending a nervous glance at Eliza who smiled encouragingly. “Uh yeah, so. I think most of you have heard me talk about my boyfriend… Jamiroquai.” A few nods around the circle, and more reassuring smiles. Hamilton took a breath, suddenly motivated to go on. “For those of you who haven’t we’ve been going out a little over a month. There have been a few…um…ups and downs…but for the most part it’s been going really good. And we’re going on our first official date in a couple of days which is pretty big news.”

He paused to allow for the obligatory _Aws_ , dutifully nodding his head and smiling humbly. “Thanks, yeah. Most of the time we just hang around in our sweatpants eating three-day old takeout so…er…” he trailed off, awkwardly aware of his audience and not particularly wanting to visit the story of Sodom, regardless of how progressive Eliza’s church claimed to be. “Yeah. All that stuff. Anyway, it’s kind of a big deal seeing as we haven’t really taken this thing public outside of our close friends. Because of you know,” he bobbed his head vaguely. “The prejudice.”

A few sympathetic nods around the circle from those who were familiar with The Prejudice.

“Well that’s great news!” the pastor enthused, beaming around the circle in a genuine yet vaguely threatening way, as if daring anyone to say otherwise. “What a huge step for you and Jamiroquai. Are you excited?”

“Yeees,” Hamilton drew out carefully. “I’m looking forward to it. We were friends before we got together so we don’t often get a chance to do stuff outside of a group environment, and I think sometimes it’s easy for us to fall into that comfort blanket of ‘just guys being pals’. But I guess there’s also a part of me that’s a little apprehensive.”

“Mm,” the parson frowned, a crease appearing on his remarkably youthful brow. Like, Hamilton didn’t have any ballpark for how old this guy was, but it had to be forties at least. His skin was to die for, Hamilton wondered what kind of moisturiser he used. “Why’s that?”

“Ah well,” Hamilton made a vaguely uninspiring gesture. “Away from home ground. I mean, not technically. It’s a home game, basketball. But familiar turf, I mean. Safe territory. I’m prevaricating, sorry.” He blew out a breath, lifting his gaze to the masonry where the light fell in streams through the rafters. “I’m apprehensive for his sake, I guess. He gets a little weird when he’s uncomfortable, or threatened, and I don’t want it to get in the way or ruin anything.” He hesitated, trying to work out how much he could say without giving anything significant away. “Also we have this fancy party thing my boss invited me to. His father will be there. It’ll be the first time we’ve seen each other since…the incident.” He blew out another breath, aware that this was becoming gradually more difficult to talk about. “I really want him to like me. But I also don’t like him in the slightest and want him to know that…so that’s another issue.”

The pastor hummed in sympathy. “That seems complicated,” he said understandingly. “Would anyone like to respond?” 

Hamilton waited, feeling vaguely like he was under a spotlight, and unsure whether he wanted anyone to respond or not. Before he could make his mind up a middle-aged woman spoke from across the circle. 

“It sounds to me like the main source of your concern is your boyfriend,” she said. “Like you don’t have any actual worries of your own, rather you’re shouldering his because he’s unable to deal with them.” 

“Oh I definitely have worries of my own,” Hamilton laughed. “I have like, a whole term’s worth of work that I should have been prioritising. Plus I’m like, this close to being evicted because I’ve been studying through all the shifts I could have picked up.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” said Eliza, eyes wide with shock.

“Not a big deal,” Hamilton reassured her. “I’m catering this weekend, I’ll survive. Point is, I have enough shit on my plate without worrying about his dumb ass on top of it. Sorry,” he cringed, remembering where he was. “Swearing was kind of a staple part of most of the other support groups I’ve been to.”

“Even so,” the woman continued. “It sounds to me like the target of your anxiety is Ja...?”

“Jamiroquai,” Hamilton nodded solemnly.

“Right,” said the woman. “If you ask me, your instinct to prioritise his concerns above your own comes from a place of enormous selflessness, and sacrifice.”

Several people nodded. Hamilton squirmed, uncomfortable and entirely undeserving of Eliza squeezing his hand.

“I don’t know about that,” he smiled nervously. “The incident was kind of my fault, so if there’s anything Christian about the place it comes from its more likely to be one of guilt than sacrifice.”

“Is it possible you’re projecting?” frowned the pastor, propping his chin on his fist. “That it’s easier to worry about his problems than confronting your own emotionally?”

“I,” Hamilton stumbled, the net momentarily caught around his legs. “Yeah, I. Maybe. It’s possible.” He hesitated, wanting to say more but also unsure what more he could possibly say. “Also, not to labour too much on the whole martyr thing, but he is doing a lot worse than me. There’s a lot of evidence that shows he’s really not all that ok and it kinda sucks to know that I had a hand in that.”

“You’re trying to make up for what happened to him,” said a young girl with a quiet voice, who couldn’t have been older than sixteen. “It’s not your fault.”

“Ha,” Hamilton winced, powerfully aware that no one in this group apart from Eliza knew the details of what went down. “That’s...really not all that true. But thanks.”

Eliza moved her hand from his to stroke his arm. Hamilton violently wished she wouldn’t. The pastor was looking at him, slight frown still in place and eyes gentle with sympathy. Hamilton, finding he couldn’t meet them, dropped his own into his lap. The walls of the church were cavernous and doleful, somehow serving to amplify the silence. Hamilton wished desperately for something to break it when the pastor spoke again.

“We have all of us heard countless times how important it is to forgive others,” he said slowly. “However, what I think we don’t hear quite enough is how equally important it is to forgive ourselves. We all make mistakes. We have all hurt people we care about, whether intentionally or otherwise, and sometimes it might feel like there’s no coming back from that, or that we don’t deserve to. In these instances, it is important to remember that learning to forgive others _means_ starting with yourself. Remember, as the Bible says: _Be kind to one another, tender-hearted._ That _whatever is true, honourable, just, pure, lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things._ And above all, _Cast all your care upon him, for God cares for you.”_

The pastor smiled. And Hamilton couldn’t help it. He smiled back.

“You did so good,” Eliza told him, chairs scraping around them as people got up to leave. “I can’t believe it took half an hour in the first session before you’d even say ‘Hello’.”

“What can I say,” Hamilton shrugged, lifting his hand in goodbye to some of the others. “They wore me down. Maybe that’s why I’m so lonely in the shower these days, all my demons have been suction cupped.”

“I love that it’s been five weeks, and you still have almost no sense of appropriacy,” Eliza chirped, slinking her arm through his.

“That’s what you get for bringing an arrogant sceptic agnostic to your support group of hardcore believers,” Hamilton petted her hand. “Nah for real, though. The only reason I agreed to come with you in the first place was because I thought it would be kinda funny. But weirdly I think that sort of helps? I don’t know, maybe the trick to talking is to not take it too seriously. Like sure, you’re shacking off your pants for the whole world to see your junk but it’s maybe less excruciating if you can also appreciate the funny shape.”

“It’s a funny shape?”

“It’s a _fine_ shape, Schuyler. I was doing a parable, did you not get that?”

“Sorry, didn’t recognise the format.”

“Ah, okay, fair enough, I’ll rephrase. Once there lived a man whom God had blessed greatly in both land and camels…however, the Lord had grieved him in but one respect. His junk was of a funny shape-”

A stroke of divine intervention cut Hamilton off in the form of his phone phone vibrating. Eliza nudged him. “Aren’t you going to get that?”

“Eh. Not sure it’s appropriate.”

“You were literally texting during the session.”

“Yes, but now _I’m_ parable-ing. Also, you know,” he wobbled his head significantly. “It could be from Jamiroquai. You know.” He wobbled his head again. “Images. Graven or otherwise.”

“Or it could be from Jamiroquai asking where you are,” Eliza pointed out.

“Nah. I’ve been telling everyone I’ve got a tutor meeting. Not that I’m embarrassed or anything. Just ‘Christian support group’ doesn’t exactly jive with my aesthetic. Don’t want people to think I’m actually getting help for my myriad of problems, or I’ll lose all my soft grunge edge.” His phone vibrated again, somehow more urgently. “Okay actually yeah, it’s gonna really bother me if I don’t answer it. Shield your eyes, will you? I can’t throw a curtain over the statues, you’ll have to do.”

Eliza brought her hand over her eyes, meaning she missed Hamilton’s perplexed frown as he brought up the text from Laurens.

_JL: dont look @ ur emails!!!_

“What the…” Hamilton shook his head in pure bemusement at Laurens’ calculation. _“Obviously_ I’m going to look at my emails now you moron, do you not know me at all…oh.”

Hamilton’s thumb faltered on the screen, his wrist suddenly slack and loose so that the phone nearly slipped out of it. He stared dumbly, ears suddenly ringing with high pitched buzzing noise that deafened out all other emotion, so that he was numb. Realising he hadn’t spoken for a while, Eliza dropped her hands from her face.

“What is it?” she asked, reaching to take the phone out of Hamilton’s hand. “What’s wrong – Oh!”

She clutched the phone in, eyes stretched enormously wide with horror. Her appalled grimace brought Hamilton back to reality; he shook his head, attempting to clear the white noise blaring in his head.

“It’s fine,” the words fell out before he’d realised he’d meant to say them.

“Alex,” Eliza pulled her gaze up from the screen to look at him. There were already tears in her eyes.

Hamilton shrugged. “It’s fine,” he said again. He plucked the phone out of her hands, forced himself to squint at the screen. “Ew, look at that. Terrible choice of font. Actually you know what, it was probably red when they did it, but then it went that mouldy green colour when they sent it through. That happens sometimes when you use different processors, I’ve been warning Washington about it since day.”

“Alex, you have to report this,” Eliza told him, voice breaking a little in her urgency.

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “To who?” he asked. “To pastoral? This could have come from anyone. My Twitter following has really shot up since I made the national, as well as the number of trolls. This is nothing on some of the stuff I’ve already been DMd in the past.” Entirely untrue. This was the worst, the worst _the worst._ “Seriously, this is weak compared to some of the shit I’ve seen. Like, positively vanilla. A ten year old who just discovered WordArt and the Urban Dictionary could have come up with this. Frankly, I’m a little embarrassed. I should email back with a bullet-point photoshop session, just to show them how it’s done.” _You’re upset, Alexander, and you’re talking too much, come on, get a hold of yourself, get a grip-_

“Not to pastoral,” Eliza was insisting. “To the _police._ ”

This time, Hamilton laughed out loud. It was bitter and hoarse and Eliza flinched. “Hello, NYPD?” he said, voice heavy with sarcasm as he mimed speaking into a telephone. “Hi yeah, remember that guy whose boyfriend you jumped, and who’s been slagging you off to the papers for the past few months? Yeah, well now I’m being cyber-bullied, would you mind taking some time off from all the murder to look into it?”

“This is _real_ Alexander,” Eliza said, the tears tripping from the precipice to roll down her cheek. “They’re real people, and they’re threatening to hurt you!”

“It’s not…they’re not,” Hamilton sighed, oddly feeling himself become calm in the face of Eliza’s mounting hysteria. “Look. It’s just some dumb, bored kid who isn’t getting enough attention on Reddit and thought he’d get his kicks trying to scare the shit out of me. It’s fucking juvenile. Believe me, the dumbest thing you can do is respond to it. You can’t rise to this kind of bullshit, or it’ll just get worse.”

He forced a smile, putting his arm around Eliza when she didn’t look convinced. “If they think they can slow me down with ugly font and harsh language they have another thing coming,” he told her confidently, squeezing her arm. “ _Forgive them father, for they know not what they do!_ Or better yet: _The Lord will fight for you, and you have only to be silent._ I know we have our differences here, but the Old Testament really does come in handy for stuff like this. Come on. Let’s go shopping.”

*

“John!” Lafayette called out, taking off his coat and hanging it on the peg beside the door. “John, are you in?”

His nostrils flared slightly, catching a whiff of store-bought pizza. He marched into the kitchen and found the half-eaten culprit still laying in its box. Pineapple, as he’d suspected. However, an abandoned slice showed evidence of yet another topping. Lafayette’s brow puckered suspiciously as he raised the slice for inspection, not knowing anyone in their friendship group who favoured Four Seasons.

“Who else is here?” he demanded, throwing the betraying slice onto the counter top. “Show yourself! I have the evidence!”

No reply. Curiosity mounting, Lafayette’s hands curled absently around the handle of the broom propped against the fridge. He thought it quite unlikely that someone would have the gall to break into Laurens’ apartment and order a pizza. However, it was a more likely scenario than Tallmadge ordering anything other than Egg Florentine.

Tentatively, he moved along the hallway until he was in front of Laurens’ door. Pressing an ear against it, he thought he could hear voices. He moved the broom handle so that it was more threateningly in front of him before entering.

Laurens and André both jumped as he burst in, eyes widening in shock.

“Lafayette!” quick as a flash, Laurens slammed down the lid of the laptop. “What are you doing?”

Lafayette’s eyes narrowed, flitting to the closed laptop. “What are _you_ doing?” he returned challengingly.

“Er,” Laurens and André exchanged a look. “We were just…uh…”

“Watching anime,” André supplied.

“What?” Laurens frowned indignantly at him. “No, we weren’t.”

“Tell me,” Lafayette gestured to the laptop. “Is that better or worse than what you were actually doing? I mean to say, do I need to call Alexander?”

“No,” said Laurens firmly.

“Okay,” said Lafayette. “In that case, Ouran High School Host Club is my favourite.”

“I like Vampire Knight,” mumbled André, quailing under Laurens’ fierce look. “What? The first season is good. It doesn’t get weird and incesty until at least halfway through the second.”

Laurens ignored him, gesturing instead at Lafayette and the broom, still raised in his hand. “How the hell do you have keys?”

“For emergencies,” Lafayette replied vaguely. “Of which this is clearly one.” He lifted his gaze to André, wagging a reproving finger at him. “I like you, André. But please do not test my detective skills again. I possess all the flair and debonair instinct of Jules Maigret.”

“I don’t know what that is,” said André.

“Why do you have a _broom?!”_

“Look,” said Lafayette, feeling a little embarrassed and putting the broom behind his back. “I am not the one on trial here. This is not the Committee of Public Safety.”

“I thought you said French Revolution jokes were crass.”

“It is alright if you were watching porn together. You can do that platonically.”

Laurens’ frowned deepened. “How the _fuck_ do you platonically watch porn together?”

“You can,” Lafayette insisted. “If you don’t touch. C’est possible.”

“Well we _weren’t,”_ snarled Laurens, annoyed at Lafayette as well as André for blushing. “This is…so stupid anyway. Why are you _here,_ Lafayette?”

“Alexander has received a threatening email,” Lafayette replied. “I wanted to be the one to tell you, if you didn’t already know, and if you did, to start organising strategy. As you know I am a chevalier and it is against my code to seek unnecessary retaliation. However, in this instance I do believe that attack is the best form of defence. We should start by tracing the source of the email, and rounding up a list of likely perpetrators. From there I have not decided whether it would be best to publicly shame them, or to track them down one by one as in that problematic novel you like, what is the one?”

“And Then There Were None is a classic.”

“It had a different name,” Lafayette reminded him. “A more racist one. You know it did.”

“Laurens,” André said softly, poking him gently in the side. “I think we should just tell him.”

Lafayette’s eyes darted from André’s pleading expression to Laurens, his mouth fixed in a tight, thin line and jaw set with reluctance. He squared his shoulders, swiftly pressing his advantage. “Tell me what?”

Laurens let out a groan of frustration, throwing his hands into the air. “Fine,” he snarled, grabbing the lid of the laptop and wrenching it open. “Get over here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ephesians 4:32 Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.
> 
> Philippians 4:8 Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.
> 
> 1 Peter 5:7 Cast all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you.
> 
> Really sorry for how long this update took, i forgot to say i was doing a long bike trip across Italy and didn't know whether I'd come back alive
> 
> thanks for bearing with all the religion and the espionage. I promise the action will kick back in next chapter, as well as more DJing fun
> 
> comments are as always greatly appreciated :)


	16. He Got Game - Public Enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got game, she's got game we got game, they got game, he got game

Lafayette said nothing, his expression impassive as he stared fixedly at the screen. In the laptop’s reflection he could see Laurens and André betraying nervous glances, like children whose parents had caught them looking at something they shouldn’t have been. He scrolled through the chatroom site, not saying a word but jaw tightening as words leapt out from the screen in brutal, unfiltered type.

_Half-breed._

_Faggot._

_Slut._

His stomach dipped and clenched, a cold fog falling over him similar to stepping out of the shower. He kept scrolling. The language grew worse – not just slurs now but visualised scenarios, suggestions of what they thought people like him deserved. And finally upon reaching the later messages, an actual plan carried out in the form of the email Hamilton had forwarded him.

Lafayette pushed the laptop away. He felt sick, insides swimming acidically like he had eaten too much chipotle in one sitting. Most of all however, he felt anger.

“Okay,” he said, his voice quite level. “I’m in.”

André, who had been on ethical tenterhooks for the past few weeks and desperately wanted someone other than Laurens to validate his decisions, looked relieved. Laurens, however, frowned at him. “You don’t even know what the plan is.”

“I can guess,” Lafayette replied, gesturing at the laptop. “You have created a Trojan horse to observe the actions of this chat with the intention of staying ahead of the game and the hope of interrupting and hijacking their movements.”

He raised an eyebrow at Laurens who blushed, sheepish and ruffled. “There was more to it than that,” he muttered defensively.

“Was there?” asked André, surprised.

 _“Yes,”_ Laurens’ lip curled. “We’re trying to find out their identities. A few days ago Drayton turned up at the Jazz Café with a handful of his cronies. The bouncer gave me their names – we’ve been trying to match their social media accounts to the usernames on this chatroom.”

“And how is that going?” prompted Lafayette.

Laurens said “Alright” at the same time as André said “Not great.”

Laurens glared at André, who raised his hands defensively. “Look,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, a lot of the guys we’ve found do seem to fit the type. But so far this has been mostly guess work. We don’t have anything concrete or even a dependable working process – apart from squeezing and manipulating the available information to fit our narrative, which honestly is just crappy journalism.”

“It is crappy journalism,” nodded Lafayette wisely, who really did not have a clue about journalism. “But more importantly, it is crappy detective work. What you need is an expert. Someone who possesses acumen, and _perspicacité.”_

“God you’re right,” Laurens shook his head woefully. “I should have talked to Ben about this sooner.”

“Not _Benjamin,”_ Lafayette snapped. “I am talking about me.”

There was a silence while Lafayette glared challengingly at the other two, until finally it was broken by Laurens laughing out loud.

“What?” demanded Lafayette, wounded.

“Lafayette, you can’t keep a secret to save your life,” Laurens told him.

“That is not true!” Lafayette wagged his finger at him. “I admit I like stories yes, and at times I have used discretion to determine whether something is worth telling. But I have not betrayed a single thing that you have told me in confidence! And what’s more, I have more on Alexander than you will ever know!”

“Really?” said Laurens eagerly, but he was cut off by André.                                                                                        

“Maybe he has a point Laurens,” he said. “Think about it. Lafayette’s popular. Even some of Alexander’s enemies like and trust him. Plus he’s mutual friends with nearly half the people we’ve found on Facebook.”

“Am I?” Lafayette frowned, pulling the laptop back to him and opening the various tabs. “I don’t remember meeting these people.”

“That’s because you respond to literally every invite you get,” Laurens pointed out.

“I like to be friendly,” Lafayette confirmed. “That is why I get invited to real events, while you are at home jerking off to Kraftwerk and eating Cheetos in your underwear. But point taken. I am a friend flirt.”

“He could be what we’re missing,” André continued. “To help us get real, actual evidence, rather than just what feels right.”

Laurens considered. Lafayette was looking up at him hopefully, in a way that didn’t exactly fill him with confidence. Then again, it was hard to argue with what André had said. For whatever reason, people did seem to like him an awful lot.

“Alright,” he conceded finally. “But you _have to keep this quiet._ And most importantly, away from Alex. He cannot find out what we’re up to.”

“Agreed,” Lafayette nodded immediately, much to Laurens’ surprise. “He would want to take control, and through his efforts likely inflame the situation. Besides, there is no reason to make him more upset, especially when he is already under so much pressure. We will deal with this silently and efficiently.” He paused, something suddenly occurring to him. “He told me you texted him not to open his emails. How will you explain that you knew?”

Laurens made a dismissive gesture. “I’ll just say André got an anonymous tip-off,” he replied. “Keep it vague.”

“Good,” Lafayette nodded appreciatively. “Try to steer him off the scent.”

“I doubt that’ll be hard,” Laurens said wryly. “It’s not exactly prime date conversation.”

“Oh yeah,” André looked up at him, grinning knowingly. “Perfect timing. Ample distraction.”

“Right?” Laurens laughed uncomfortably. “Nothing to keep your mind off bigot cyberterrorists like the pressure to perform under the expectations of societal romance.”

“Do not let this spoil your day, John,” Lafayette told him, stalking through the Facebook pages of his Draytonist mutuals. “You will both be nervous enough as it is. You do not need any more ways that this could fuck up.”

“Thanks, Lafayette,” said Laurens.

*

The day of the game, Hamilton woke up early. He showered thoroughly and washed his hair, spending half an hour afterwards trying to get it under some form of semi-control before giving up and turning his attentions to shaving. There really wasn’t much to get rid of, and in an attempt to sustain the illusion he managed to nick himself scraping at an imaginary clump of stubble.

He stared at himself in the mirror, watching the ruby-bright dot beading from the tiny wound. In his eyes he looked tired and wan, shadows clinging to his lower lids like cobwebs. His skin was bad – pale and marked by the stress of exams and crappy eating. Somehow his forehead and nose seemed even bigger under the bathroom light than usual.

 _Whatever,_ he thought angrily to himself, switching off the light. _If he doesn’t like you by now then switching up your skincare routine isn’t going to do anything._

He swiped the blood away, briefly glancing at the smear on his fingertips before running them under the tap.

After an hour spent stressing over what to wear he finally settled on jeans and a button-down shirt, hoping desperately that Laurens wasn’t going to just rock up in a hoody and sweats. Then he sat at his desk and waited for Laurens to pick him up, demolishing sticky-notes to avoid tearing at his fingernails.

At exactly 11.30am Laurens texted his arrival. Hamilton leapt up, almost tripping on his way downstairs in his haste to where Laurens’ Audi was parked outside.

“Hey,” Laurens smiled shyly as Hamilton opened the car door and slid in.

Hamilton glanced Laurens up and down, relief settling over him as he took in his most expensive jeans and least horrible shirt. “Hey yourself,” he greeted him, eyes roving over his nicely displayed arms. “You look hot.”

“So do you,” said Laurens earnestly.

Hamilton let out a bark of sceptical laughter. “No, you do,” Laurens insisted. “You look really nice.”

Hamilton’s mouth quirked in disbelieving gratitude. Laurens leaned in for what was clearly meant to be a chaste kiss; however at the last moment Hamilton tilted his chin, catching him at the side rather than head on so that their lips slid together. He moved his hand up to grasp Laurens’ jaw, rubbing a thumb over his clearly more successful attempts to shave. He felt Laurens’ pulse leap beneath the heel of his palm, heard his breath stutter and catch.

They kissed until they were both breathless, until the ample space of the car began to feel stuffy and warm. Laurens was cramming Hamilton against the door, Hamilton pawing pathetically at the front of his shirt. At last, when Hamilton let out a tiny mewling sound which Laurens recognised as the prelude to later things, he forced himself to pull away.

“Hey,” he chastised him. “Not on the first date.”

Hamilton laughed, cheeks flushed a little pink with embarrassment. “Sorry,” he said, propping himself back up and clicking on his seat belt. “What must you think of me.”

“What must I,” Laurens agreed, mirroring Hamilton’s grin before returning his hand to the gear stick and starting the engine.

It wasn’t too far from the subway, in fact, had Hamilton been alone he would have walked. But he had a sneaking suspicion that Laurens thought picking someone up in his car was somehow intrinsic to an authentic date. He was prepared to humour him, glad for the chance to appreciate Laurens’ confidence when driving, the self-assured certainty of his hands on the wheel. A certainty that disappeared almost the moment they arrived at the station. At once his shoulders slumped, hands returning automatically to his pockets. He fumbled through the stiles as they paid for their tickets, keeping his head down shiftily.

They didn’t make much conversation on the train but sat close together, hands laying inches away on the arm rest and fingers curled towards each other. Hamilton, wondering if it was obvious enough that they were dating, moved his leg so that their knees and thighs were touching. Whenever there was a bump in the track their hands brushed, knuckles inter-sliding like the electricity between magnets.

As soon as they got out of the station, Laurens took Hamilton’s hand.

“I really like this part of the city,” he told him, nodding at the buildings on either side. “I don’t know why, it feels like there’s so much more space.”

Hamilton looked at him sceptically. “It’s Midtown Manhattan,” he told him. “The entertainment capital of the world. Times Square is just over there.”

“This part of Midtown, I mean,” Laurens elaborated. “It feels easier to move around.”

“I mean, the roads are bigger,” Hamilton agreed. “It’s not that big of a game today so they’re not that full. Plus we’re early. I see what you mean, though. The park’s nice, less touristy than Central. I’m looking forward to living here.”

“Yeah?” Laurens quirked his eyebrow at him. “Not drawn to the hipster gentrification of Brooklyn?”

Hamilton shook his head. “I mean, it’s more for the commercial opportunities than aesthetic appeal,” he explained. “I’m hardly gonna devote my life to Economics and not live in the world’s central business district.”

“With the world’s highest rents,” Laurens pointed out.

“Well sure,” Hamilton shrugged. “I’ll definitely have to slum it somewhere while I finish out law school, and live in some hovel before making any real dollar. But come thirty-five? Fifth Avenue apartment, my friend. Complete with a TV wall.”

Laurens laughed and squeezed his hand, sending a trill of validated excitement running through him. “You mean like a flat screen?”

“I mean _a TV WALL_. Come on, man. If I’d meant flat screen I would have said so.”

“You don’t even watch TV.”

“I would if I had a TV wall. I’d do a lot of things if I had the cash. Like cookery courses and water skiing.”

“What about regular skiing?”

Hamilton pulled a face. “Black people don’t _ski,_ John.”

“I’ve been skiing.”

Hamilton bit his lip. Laurens sent him a look. “Don’t say it.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Hamilton replied innocently.

“It’s _fun,”_ Laurens insisted, feeling weirdly protective of the sport despite the fact that he had never much enjoyed it. “You’d like it. I’ll teach you how.”

“Okay, John. Next time you and your family take your annual summer trip to the French Alps or whatever, I’ll come along and you can teach me how to ski.”

“We go to Switzerland,” Laurens told him. “The Matterhorn has smoother slopes.”

Hamilton looked at him boredly. “Oh my God,” he said in disbelief. “You’re actually _living_ the parody version of my future.”

Laurens coloured, a little ashamedly. “I live on a farm in the country,” he said defensively. “Not in the business capital of the world.”

“Okay, but you don’t exactly bale hay,” Hamilton rolled his eyes, momentarily distracted by the image of a plaid-wearing Laurens wrestling a sheep or some shit. “If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you wanna? You can’t say Switzerland.”

“I like Switzerland,” Laurens complained.

“And I like New York, Laurens. That’s not how you play the game.”

“Fine,” said Laurens, thinking for a second before saying, “I don’t know. New Zealand would be cool.”

“New Zealand would be cool,” Hamilton nodded agreeably. “Hang on. Did you just say that because of Lord of the Rings?”

“Like…partially?” and when Hamilton looked pained, “I’m not going to apologise. Mountains are my aesthetic.”

Hamilton shook his head, exasperated but fond. “You are such a nerd.”

“Alright, where would yours be?” prompted Laurens. “And you can’t say the Caribbean.”

“I _wouldn’t_ say the Caribbean,” Hamilton countered. “Anyway, the Virgin Isles isn’t the _whole_ of the West Indies, John. There’s disparity between the islands, don’t be ignorant.”

“Where?”

“Uh…Paris?” Hamilton suggested, and then more decisively. “Or London. Actually both, now that I’ve done New York I want to try out all three.”

Laurens smiled at him affectionately. “Such a city boy.”

 _“Born in raised in South Detroit,”_ Hamilton sang at once. _“Actually it was in Nevis, which could mean anywhere.”_

Laurens laughed again. They walked along the street, admiring the strange majesty of the steel grey buildings until the stadium’s cylindrical head could be seen crowning over the top. As they drew nearer the streets grew thicker with people, swarming around the base like flies until suddenly they were in the middle of a crowd. A row of cops flanked the entrance, directing the traffic. As if on reflex, Laurens dropped Hamilton’s hand. Despite the stab of hurt at the loss Hamilton pretended not to notice, like he pretended not to notice Laurens stiffen beside him.

They moved very slowly to avoid getting separated, overly conscious of bumping into people or cutting ahead. After what felt like an age they were finally at the front of the queue; Laurens flashed the tickets on his phone and they had their wrists clipped with plastic fluorescent bands. Once through security Laurens took the lead in finding their seats, steering forward with a steady determination that didn’t quite disguise how on edge he was. Hamilton watched him closely as his wide eyes flickered over the crowd. A muscle was leaping in his jaw, it didn’t relax until they were sat down.

Once they took their seats Laurens’ glance darted across the venue, sussing out the exits. Hamilton felt something well up inside him until it was pressing against the walls of his chest. He thought desperately for a way to distract him.

“These are really good seats,” he observed. “I still can’t believe they were on the only day I was off.”

“Hm?” Laurens wrenched his gaze away from the emergency exit to bring himself back to earth. “Yeah, that was lucky. It’s like the stars aligned for us for once.”

“For once,” Hamilton nodded in agreement. “We’ll just have to be savvier in our activity planning. Find all the cheap spots to hang out, the ones that do student discounts. It’ll be easier after exams, I’ll have more time to discover places.”

“How did your tutor meeting go?” asked Laurens.

“Huh?” Hamilton frowned. “Oh, that. Yeah, it went pretty well. Until, y’know,” he wobbled his head vaguely. “The whole…death threat situation.”

“Jesus fuck,” Laurens blew out a breath and closed his eyes, cursing himself savagely for bringing up the one topic he had meant to keep off limits. “I’m sorry. How are you…?”

Hamilton waved dismissively. “Fine,” he said bluntly. “Seriously dude. Like I’m not gonna lie, it knocked me off kilter for a sec. But honestly, I’m surprised it took them this long to get round to it. I’ve been expecting something like this since we first set up the SJC. To be honest, I should be flattered they even considered me _worthy_ of a death threat. That’s not a level you make it to every day.”

“It’s alright if it scared you,” Laurens said quietly. “I would have been. I _was.”_

“Yeah, well,” Hamilton shrugged. “Like I said. It threw me for a loop for a sec. But you don’t wanna give them the credit of fear, that’s what they want. Besides, it was so fucking dumb what would even be the point? But yeah, I mean…it wasn’t _nice,”_ he sighed, rubbed his eyes as the text flashed violently before them. “Still. Worse things have happened, all things considered. I’m hardly gonna cry about it just because some asshole got bored and decided to play at Zodiac.”

“It’s just fucking morons,” Laurens said heatedly. “Empty threats from losers tryna make themselves feel better about their lives.”

Hamilton’s mouth twisted. “You sound like Donald Trump.”

Laurens flicked him.

“I’m just saying you don’t need to worry,” he said. “It’s pathetic.”

“I know,” Hamilton agreed. “Don’t worry.” He patted Laurens cheerfully on the thigh. “Let’s talk about something else. How’s stuff coming for the dem-gal gig?”

“Yeah, ok,” said Laurens, cheeks warming automatically. “I’mma…working on something interesting.”

Hamilton’s eyebrow quirked, a curious grin spreading in reaction to Laurens’ caginess. “Interesting?” he prompted. “Interesting how?”

“Guess you’ll see, won’t you?” returned Laurens tauntingly.

“Oh so it’s like _that_ is it?” Hamilton leant back in his seat, folding his arms in delicious intrigue. “Fair play, John Laurens. I guess I will. Monday, right?”

“Friday,” Laurens corrected him. “It’s the night after the dinner.”

Hamilton’s mouth made a tiny “o”. Sensing his hesitation, Laurens pressed him quickly, “What?”

“I signed up to a shift Friday evening,” Hamilton explained apologetically. “I’d back out, but I need the money.” When Laurens began to look crestfallen, he said hurriedly, “Look, not a big deal. I’ll knock off the last two hours and be out by nine. Your thing starts at ten, right?”

“Nine thirty,” Laurens confirmed gloomily.

Hamilton let out a low whistle. “Okaaay,” he breathed out, mostly to himself. “It’ll be a squeeze, but I’ll be there. Worst comes to the worst I’ll be ten minutes late.”

“Look, don’t worry about it,” Laurens told him. “If you need to work late, it’s not a problem-”

Hamilton cut him off, shaking his head. “No,” he stated definitively. “This is more important. I wouldn’t miss you for the world, John. _Especially_ if you’re going to be doing something interesting.”

Laurens grinned at him, embarrassed but pleased.

A couple of pinstriped vendors were making rounds of the stands, selling hotdogs and nachos. As they drew nearer the greasy smell of fried food carried on the wind. Hamilton’s stomach rumbled loudly, a vocal reminder that he hadn’t had breakfast. Laurens, who was always hungry anyway, glanced at him amusedly. Hamilton cringed.

“Sorry,” he said, putting a hand on his belly. “All I’ve had to eat in the last twenty-four hours was a pack of thin mints. I could smash some nachos.”

“We’ll get some to share,” said Laurens, half-rising out of his seat as the vendors approached.

“Dude, sit down, I’ll get them,” Hamilton waved dismissively, reaching for his own wallet.

“Seriously, it’s fine,” said Laurens, who already had his wallet out and was leafing through the cash.

Hamilton flapped him away, clambering over him so that his body was in between him and the vendors. The man next to him spared an annoyed look that oddly made Laurens feel was directed at him.

“You already bought the tickets,” Hamilton reminded him. “Just let me get this.”

“Alright fine,” Laurens conceded, not wanting to cause any more disturbance and falling back into his seat. “Just don’t want you thinking I’m a cheap date.”

“And I don’t want you thinking I’m the girl in this relationship,” said Hamilton, before he had thought about it.

Laurens’ eyes widened. He opened his mouth, closed it again, a flush creeping swiftly into his cheeks. Hamilton froze, his hand halfway to his cash.

“Look, sorry, that wasn’t a very 2018 thing to say,” he said eventually with a sigh. “All I meant was, you paid for the date. You swung by to pick me up in your fancy car. You have me feeling a little 1950s here. A little helpless damsel-y.”

“I don’t think you’re the girl,” Laurens mumbled.

“I mean,” Hamilton joked. “There’d be something seriously wrong if you thought I _was,”_ and when Laurens did not look amused, “Look. You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s my insecurities, not you. It’s not even to do with you. Just humour me, John. Let me feel like a man and pay for some goddamn artery cloggers.”

Laurens’ expression relaxed with the humour. Hamilton handed the money to the vendors, settling the enormous cardboard box of nachos between them before diving in ravenously. Laurens watched him, feeling a tender sort of ache somewhere in his chest. He wondered whether he should offer to let Hamilton pay for his ticket. He thought he probably should, however he really didn’t want to. Quite aside from the fact that Hamilton had self-professed to have no money, he’d wanted to buy them for him. He hoped Hamilton saw it as a desire to do a nice thing, and not some weird attempt at power play.

A sudden cheer rang out across the stadium as the screen lights flickered on and horns began to blow. Hamilton leapt up in his chair, almost sending nachos diving for the stands.

“Hey, it’s starting!” he squealed, clapping excitedly and causing the man beside him to give him another dirty look. “Aw, maybe we should have forked out for binoculars. Whoops, sorry. I mean _I,_ obviously. You’re so lucky you’re tall with twenty-twenty vision. The whole world is your oyster.”

“Yeah, but you’re tiny and cute,” said Laurens, nuzzling his hair.

Hamilton squirmed happily, a warm feeling like butter spreading through his stomach, although this maybe had just as much to do with the food. He reached for another chip, munching happily as the players approached the court.

“Oh my God,” groaned Hamilton through a thick mouthful of guacamole. “This is the best thing that I’ve ever eaten ever.”

“It beats Caribbean food?” Laurens asked sceptically.

“It tastes better because I’m with you,” Hamilton purred fluttering his eyelashes and trying and failing to be sexy, largely due to the glob of guacamole on the corner of his mouth.

Laurens burst out laughing, gesturing at Hamilton’s face. “It’s so good you’re saving that for later?”

Hamilton stuck his tongue out. “Student budget man,” he replied. “Gotta ration this shit.” He wiped at his face, missing entirely. “Did I get it?”

“Not even close.” Hamilton tried again. Laurens shook his head. “Here, let me.”

He swiped the guacamole from Hamilton’s mouth, amused affection blooming in his chest as Hamilton grinned at him sheepishly. “Thanks,” he said, adding sardonically. “My hero.”

“Hey come on,” the guy next to him, finally having enough, snarled harshly. “We’re tryna watch the game here.”

“It hasn’t even started yet,” Hamilton snapped without missing a beat.

“If you’re gonna do this the whole way through, take it somewhere else.”

“We’re not doing anything to you,” Hamilton’s voice climbed in volume. Laurens put a hand on his arm, leaning across him.

“Alex,” he said warningly before addressing the man. “Sorry…sorry.”

Instead of retaliating, the guy scowled and turned away. Hamilton continued glaring at him a moment longer before cutting his eyes from him and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Asshole,” he muttered to himself, looking up angrily at Laurens. “What did you say sorry for?”

“Hey, it’s really annoying when couples are all over each other at sports games,” Laurens told him. “I would have grit my teeth too.”

“Oh right, yeah,” Hamilton rolled his eyes. “Just because we’re a _couple.”_

“Alexander,” said Laurens softly.

Hamilton looked up into his quietly pleading face. His heart softened a little and he forced a smile, squeezing Laurens’ arm.

“I’m fine, John,” he promised him, relenting. “It’s all good. I’m having fun. Let’s watch some sports.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about stopping before the porn but u can have it on monday because it's bank holiday and i have nothing better to doooo


	17. So Good - NAO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cos I need to deal with the fever too, boy just take me there

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at this point am I just providing sex songs

Lafayette examined the mask. The fluorescent lighting was trapped by the glass case, bouncing off the dark, purplish wood and highlighting the sharp angles and lines. Despite the scratches of age and mistreatment the surface was smooth, suggesting a skin almost supple and lifelike in a way that the shape of the face was not.

He bent down in order to peer at the label next to it. The neat, rectangular plaque on its plastic backing read _‘Ntomo’ Mask, Bamana, Mali._ Lafayette pressed his hands to the glass, his fingertips leaving little ghostly marks of condensation. It was less out of a futile urge to touch it than it was a desire to leave an impression of his present on the past. He had no wish, or righteous claim to ownership, only a longing for communication – a way of somehow transferring his existence in the here and now to this artefact from a different place and time.

“Quite something, isn’t it?”

Lafayette looked over his shoulder to see Jefferson coming over from where he had been looking at the shields. He perched next to Lafayette, his hands deep in the pockets of his linen blazer.

“That’s a Ntomo mask,” he said, without even glancing at the plaque. “Used by the Bamana, or Bambara people, in the early cycle of their initiation rites. During this time, boys wear the masks to reinforce the lessons they’ve been taught before circumcision. See this one has a thin mouth,” he gestured at the faint slash in the wood. “Representing the virtues of discipline, and controlling one’s speech.”

“Maybe we should get one for Alexander,” quipped Madison, who had appeared at Lafayette’s right.

Lafayette smiled thinly as Jefferson chuckled. “Nah, this is more from Hamilton’s neck of the woods,” he said, leading Lafayette and Madison to another case a few feet away. “Ashanti mask, from Ghana. Proportionately speaking, Virgin Islanders are among the highest with Ghanaian ancestry within the whole Americas. Their genepool is particularly interesting, due to their rather unique colonisation history with the Danes,” he turned to the large map of Africa, running his thumb along the curved line. “Their trading activities were mainly centred along the Gold Coast, and they along with the German Brandenburgers were heavily involved in the early trade to Saint Thomas and Saint John, with Saint Croix being bought by the Danes later from the French in 1733.”

He tapped the map twice with his finger before dropping his arm off the wall, returning his hands to his pockets.

“So if you think about it,” he said, turning back to Madison and Lafayette. “Speaking in white supremacist terms, Hamilton contains genes both from the archetypal Nordic-Aryan master _and_ primitive races.” He nodded once again at the mask, cracking a slow, sardonic smile. “How ironical!”

“Indeed,” said Lafayette, tight-lipped.

“Where are you, then?” Madison asked him, squinting at a mask whose plaque read _Baule, Ivory Coast._ “Here?”

“Could be Ntomo as well,” Jefferson replied. “There are Bamana people in Senegal. What’s your history, Lafayette?”

Lafayette shrugged. “I am not sure,” he replied curtly. “The colonies, originally. There is a strong black presence in French aristocracy. One of my ancestors fought in the Haitian Revolution, and was awarded noble status as a result. Then there was a lot of inter-marrying and political manoeuvring…I have a fancy that I am distantly related to Toussaint L’Ouverture, but we cannot find substantive evidence.”

“Wasn’t there a black Lafayette in the American Revolution?” frowned Madison. “James Armistead Lafayette. He was a slave turned spy who reported on the activities of Benedict Arnold, after defecting to the British. He was freed after the war.”

“Perhaps you’re related to him,” Jefferson suggested.

Lafayette fixed on a smile. “Perhaps,” he said.

“You should find out,” Jefferson told him very seriously. “History is important. Gotta know your roots.” His face suddenly split into a grin again, as if the whole thing had been a fantastic joke.

“Where the hell’s King and Amherst?” Madison asked impatiently. “Are they still in Egypt?”

“I think they were headed to China,” replied Lafayette.

“Ah, we have left our King in Asia,” Jefferson smiled, amused by himself. “Call them, James. I’m getting hungry and the café closes soon.”

Madison fished out his phone, scrolling for the contact. The other two waited, Lafayette still looking at the mask until finally he picked up.

“Yo,” said Madison, the greeting oddly formal and curt. “Where are you?” A pause as irritation flickered across Madison’s face. “What are you doing back there? We already _did_ it.” The response on the other end was high and defensive. Madison rolled his eyes. “Fine. Stay there, we’ll come to you.” He ended the call, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. “They’re back in Mesopotamia, laughing at the statues.”

Jefferson raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Philistines,” he breathed out. “Let’s go get them.”

“Amherst’s father is Jeffrey Amherst, yes?” Lafayette ran to catch up with Jefferson as he set off at a brisk walk. “From the Tea Party?”

Jefferson inclined his head in confirmation. “Jeffrey Amherst IV,” he supplied. “Our Jeff is Amherst V. There was an Amherst who fought in the Revolutionary War too you know, only on the British side.”

“Really?” said Lafayette, intrigued.

Jefferson nodded. “He’s not too popular a figure nowadays,” he said jokingly. “Something to do with smallpox.”

“He is a friend of Drayton’s?” asked Lafayette.

Jefferson looked at him sharply. “Don’t be causing trouble, Lafayette,” he said warningly. “Amherst is a friend. Admittedly he’s not the brightest, and has some controversial views. But he mostly keeps them to himself.”

“I wasn’t going to cause trouble,” Lafayette assured him. “I am here under a white flag, remember?”

Jefferson smiled at him. “Good,” he said. “Ah, here they are. Jesus Christ, what are they doing?”

Amherst and King were taking selfies with the sculptures in the Mesopotamia section. They had clambered onto the plinths, and had their arms around the limestone shoulders. Lafayette was surprised an alarm hadn’t gone off.

Jefferson strode up to Amherst and jerked him by the arm, causing him to topple and lose his balance.

“Get down,” he hissed furiously. “For God’s sake, have you no respect?”

“Jesus,” Amherst rubbed his arm resentfully. “Calm down. We were just dicking about.”

Jefferson sent him a fiery glance and turned away, seething. Lafayette waited until he was a safe distance away before turning to speak to Amherst.

“We have not really had a chance to talk properly!” he said brightly. “I hope you do not think me rude, hijacking your group outing and not even taking the time to introduce myself.”

“I know who you are,” Amherst grumbled darkly. “You’re friends with that prick Hamilton.”

Lafayette laughed, waving his hand cheerily. “I admit, he can be somewhat brash at times,” he conceded. “To tell you the truth, it is good to get a break from him. We disagree on a number of topics. I am a marquis, did you know?”

“Really,” said Amherst in a way that suggested he did not know, nor particularly care.

“Alexander does not have very much respect for tradition,” Lafayette went on regretfully. “It is so hard having noble ancestry sometimes, as I am sure you are aware. I have just heard you are related to the first Lord Amherst.”

“Lafayette,” Jefferson barked out.

“Excuse me,” Lafayette nodded at Amherst. “It was good to talk.” He jogged up to where Jefferson and Madison were taking the lead. “James,” he said. “Would you mind terribly if I borrowed your phone? I just want to check something and mine is out of charge.”

“Sure,” replied Madison, unlocking his phone and passing it to Lafayette.

When he had turned away, Lafayette quickly opened his recently called list. Memorising Amherst’s number, he entered it into his own phone before opening WhatsApp.

_> Hey anderson1 here. jaxx29 gave me your no_

He waited, sending a furtive glance over his shoulder. Amherst had reached for his phone, frowning as he read the message.

_> Think he got confused. This is p0nt1ac. Dont think i know you_

_> ah sorry my mistake. Must be similar number will double check with him_

_> No worries. Are you new to the chat?_

_> yep. Still getting to know ppl!_

_> cool cool. Will keep a look out for ur name_

 “Un point à nous,” whispered Lafayette, stuffing his phone away quickly before anyone saw.

*

Hamilton’s hand fumbled over the door handle, his brain only half preoccupied with opening it as Laurens kissed him. When he finally got it open they both fell through it, their grip on each others’ waists the only thing keeping them standing. Hamilton raised his hands to Laurens’ jaw, kissing him fiercely, shoving a thigh between his legs and propelling him backwards until he was crowded back against the door. Laurens groaned, letting himself be trapped between the hard wood at his back and Hamilton licking into his mouth, heat rising swiftly in his stomach until Hamilton broke off.

“You treated me good today,” Hamilton whispered, eyes flickering half-open as he gazed up at Laurens. “Spoiled me, even. I should return the favour.”

“You don’t have-” Laurens started, thinking Hamilton was going to make this about money and payment again when Hamilton snaked his hand up the inside of his thigh, causing him to shiver.

“I know I don’t _have_ to, John,” Hamilton scratched at the inseam of his jeans, grinning devilishly at him. “I don’t do anything I don’t want to. But I think sometimes you like to see me helpless. And I think now it’s _your_ turn.”

Laurens whimpered, Hamilton’s words combined with the quiet threat behind them going straight to his cock. Hamilton kissed him again, a little rougher, tongue forceful while with his hand he rubbed Laurens through his jeans. Laurens gave a silent moan, head falling back against the door as the heat in his stomach began to build, spreading quickly into his abdomen. His pulse was racing in his neck, galloping so hard he thought it might burst through the skin. Within seconds he was reduced to panting, his breaths coming desperate and short at the rough friction of denim.

“Alexander,” he breathed, not quite sure what he was asking for but already aching so hard it hurt.

“Mmm,” Hamilton murmured back, rubbing Laurens harder.

Laurens cursed quietly, slipping a little against the door. “Alex,” he tried again. “These are – expensive jeans.”

Hamilton laughed, taking pity on Laurens enough to move his fingers up to his belt buckle. “Message received,” he replied, nipping Laurens’ bottom lip cheekily. “Wouldn’t want to mess up your nice clothes, seeing as you wear them so rarely. You know, I was worried you were gonna turn up in sweatpants.”

“I – wouldn’t for you,” Laurens replied reproachfully, sighing as Hamilton undid his fly and slipped a hand into his boxers while simultaneously pulling down his jeans. “You – make me wanna try –”

It was more of a confession than he had meant to give, encompassing much more than what to wear on a first date. Laurens stopped himself before he got too deep, said something Hamilton wasn’t ready to hear. They’d had a nice time, and now Hamilton had him trapped against the door with his hands down his pants. He didn’t need to ruin it by being emo.

Hamilton seemed not to notice, preoccupied as he was by wrestling Laurens’ jeans until they were around his knees, following quickly with Laurens’ boxers. His cock was already rock hard, red and leaking and fully upright, curving up to the curly dark hair at the base of his abdomen. Desire curled through Hamilton at the sight of it and at Laurens’ pleading, desperate face, his mouth half open and throat exposed from where he was barely keeping himself standing.

Hamilton curled his fist around Laurens’ cock, slicking it with precum before jerking him roughly. Laurens groaned, on every stroke sliding a little further down the door until Hamilton had to support him with an arm at his waist. He could feel his pulse throbbing; he turned his face into Laurens’ neck, breathing in the scent of his skin and hair as he sped up his hand.

Laurens was making tiny little _“Ah – ah”_ noises that hit Hamilton like a straight bolt, encouraging him to draw out further, to extract every sound and reaction he could get until he had his walls completely broken down. He put his teeth to Laurens’ neck, biting down very gently until with a vicious shudder Laurens was coming, grasping Hamilton’s wrist for support as his hips arched off the door.

Hamilton kept kissing him as he came, sucking on his neck and jaw and relishing the rough drag of stubble, the hard angles of Laurens’ face and body that he reflected, not without a pang of envy, despite the prettiness of his features remained ever masculine. Limbless as he was Laurens responded lazily, rolling his tongue when Hamilton caught his mouth again and stroking idly up his sides beneath his shirt. Hamilton removed the thigh from between his legs, lifting him away from the door and towards his tiny bed.

It was not exactly the most efficient space for their purposes, so small that Laurens took up most of the room with his sprawling limbs, so that he had to prop himself against the wall to allow Hamilton to clamber on top of him. He hooked his legs around the backs of Hamilton’s knees, giving him room to crawl towards him after slinging off his shirt. Hamilton re-started on Laurens’ neck, biting at his throat until he was moaning again, his lower half still shaking with the effort of his previous orgasm. Hamilton slid his hands up his bare chest, sliding off his shirt and dragging his palm over the nipples. When he saw Laurens bite his lip he did it again, and again until Laurens was keening, his cock jerking once again in lazy interest.

“God, look at you,” Hamilton groaned, his own cock pressing insistently at the sight of Laurens’ rosy cheeks and dishevelled hair, his beautiful mouth half wrecked with his own efforts as much as Hamilton’s. “You’re so fucking sexy, you make me so fucking hot-”

“Alex-ander,” Laurens whined brokenly, tears actually springing to his eyes as Hamilton rubbed again at his chest.

“Yeah, say my name,” Hamilton whispered, the word going instantly to his head. “Say my name, John.”

_“Alexander.”_

Hamilton set his mouth to Laurens’ nipple, flickering his tongue over it. Laurens squirmed, pleasure spiking through him at the sensitivity. He was conscious too of Hamilton’s hands, which, previously on his legs had risen to the back of his thighs and now sat clenching the muscle just below his ass. He could feel his thumbs curving upwards, just inches away from his entrance. The idea sent a bolt of fear and excitement straight through him; before he had quite thought about it, he was pressing back into Hamilton’s palms.

Realising, Hamilton pulled away from his chest. A slight frown flitted over his face as he looked down at Laurens, like he was trying to suss something out. He flattened his hands, grasping Laurens’ ass more firmly and digging in his nails. Laurens moaned, grinding down. Apparently convinced, Hamilton kissed Laurens briefly before reaching under his bed, emerging with lube and a condom. He kissed Laurens again, rubbing his hands soothingly over his chest, feeling his heart pounding frantically beneath them.

Laurens watched dazedly as Hamilton squeezed lube onto his fingers, coating them until they were glistening and bending an arm beneath Laurens, hooking around his waist. He circled him carefully, checking for his nod before tentatively sliding his index. At once Laurens tensed at the intrusion, eyes bulging at the heated pressure of his body closing around him. His mind was galloping like a racehorse, stumbling as it struggled to process the development. 

_Hamilton’s finger is in my butt. Hamilton’s finger is in my butt. This is good. This is fine. Hamilton’s finger is in my butt._

Hamilton pulled out a little and Laurens felt his whole body break a little bit with the absence. He had barely a chance to miss it however as Hamilton returned with more lube and another finger, gently thrusting in and out until Laurens was whining audibly, ashamed of himself but unable to stop. The flame in his lower stomach was back and licking his insides, his cock again risen to full hardness. He clung desperately to Hamilton, breath coming shorter and shorter as Hamilton worked him open.

When finally he slid his fingers out of him, he also wrung out a dry sob. Hamilton smiled at him reassuringly, kissing his cheek. “Not long now baby,” he promised. “Just hold on a little longer.”

Laurens whimpered in response, trying to think of anything to distract from the unbearable need coursing through him. Hamilton tore off his jeans and unwrapped the condom as quick as he was able, slipping it adeptly over his cock and patting Laurens on the thigh. “Turn over for me, sweetheart.”

Laurens obeyed, shaking so violently it was a wonder he could move at all. Once flat on his stomach he took a long exhale attempting to steady himself, turning his face into the mattress. He was aware only vaguely of Hamilton running a hand up his back, pressing a kiss to the base of his spine. At the first press of his tip he tried desperately to relax, attempting to switch off his racing mind and focus on the here and now. But as Hamilton gradually began to enter him, all thoughts vanished from his head completely.

“Fuck,” Hamilton breathed when he was about halfway, scrunching his eyes tightly, forbidding himself from going any further. “Fuck, you feel amazing John, fuck-”

In answer Laurens made an inarticulate noise. He was clutching the sheets of the mattress so tightly he could see the cherry red pips of his knuckles, taught and rosy through the thin skin. When he had adjusted he nodded jerkily – Hamilton pressed his hips forward until he was nearly the whole way in, giving Laurens a second to get used to him before pulling back and thrusting.

Laurens’ heart leapt into his throat, robbing him of a tongue. _“Ah-”_ he choked, pleasure and heat coursing through him to the deepest reaches of his body.

Encouraged, Hamilton thrusted again. Laurens groaned so loudly he could barely believe it had come from his own throat. Hamilton dug his fingers into Laurens’ shoulder, trying to give himself better leverage as he increased his pace.

“Oh God,” Hamilton groaned, throwing back his head and surrendering himself to the feeling of Laurens around him. “God, you feel so good, so good John-”

“I…I…” Laurens was panting, his moans becoming louder and louder with every snap of Hamilton’s hips. Hamilton hit something that made his entire body convulse like a live wire – he screamed out loud, stifling himself at the last second by biting into the mattress.

A strange fog had taken over his senses. Distantly, he was aware of Hamilton saying his name, faintly as though he were underwater. All sound, including his own, was drowned out however by the crowding of pleasure in his mind, cramming against his ear drums like white noise. He knew he was screaming, nonsensical words falling into one another as his brain struggled to order the helpless muddle of emotions. In the midst of it all, Hamilton’s name was like punctuation.

Alexander was babbling too, Laurens felt rather than heard the words as he pressed them into the skin of his back. “You’re so fucking hot,” he kept saying. “I like you so much, God, I like you so much-”

“ALEXANDER,” Laurens screamed and suddenly he was coming, pleasure breaking through him like a thunderclap, harder than he ever had in his life, so hard he thought for a second it might kill him. He shouted again into the mattress, kept shouting until it had melted out into a moan, his muscles and jaw going slack.

Above him Hamilton groaned, nails digging into Laurens’ back and briefly scrabbling as his own orgasm took him. With a few last desperate thrusts he came, slipping against Laurens’ back as he struggled to keep himself up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ntomo mask, Bamana](http://www.rhodesafricanart.com/african-art-gallery/masks/bamana-ntomo-mask//)   
>  [Ashanti mask, Akan](http://blog.africaimports.com/wordpress/2010/10/ashanti-masks-and-their-part-in-african-culture/)   
>  [Portrait mask, Baule](http://www.rhodesafricanart.com/african-art-gallery/masks/baule-portrait-mask//)


	18. Dear Boy - Avicii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh boy, you're mine, do you remember old times?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Avicii

_One year ago_

“I’m telling you, you’re gonna love this guy,” Hamilton impressed on Lafayette. “He’s one of those people who are just _cool,_ y’know? Without even having to try. Seemlessly authentic.”

“Ah yes,” Lafayette nodded sagely, flipping his newly ombre hair. “I am aware of the type.”

Hamilton frowned at Lafayette. “Are you talking about yourself?” he asked. “Because I have to tell you, you’re a thousand percent _not_ the type.”

Lafayette stared at Hamilton, shocked and hurt. “I am cool,” he said reproachfully. “I have a lot of followers on Instagram. And I have lost track of exactly how many friends on Facebook.”

“That’s literally the _opposite_ of what I’m talking about,” Hamilton rolled his eyes. “I never said you weren’t popular. But no offence Lafayette, that kind of stuff is so forced and contrived, you have to try so hard to be good at it. I don’t think Hercules even _has_ a Facebook, let alone an Instagram.”

“Oh, does he send his mail by carrier pigeon as well?” Lafayette sulked, curling his lip and crossing his arms over his chest. “How very _couture.”_

“Hey, he’s here!” Hamilton ignored Lafayette, jumping out of his seat to wave as Mulligan stepped through the door. “Mulligan! Over here, hey!”

Mulligan glanced over to where Hamilton was shouting, face breaking into an amused smile. He waved back, shouldering off a diamond-studded camouflage jacket as he came over to join their table.

“Herc, this is my friend…” Hamilton started, trailing off as he looked questioningly at Lafayette. “Gilbert? Lafayette? Marie-Joseph Paul Yves?”

“Lafayette,” said Lafayette firmly, shaking Mulligan’s offered hand. “It is very nice to meet you. I have heard a lot about you.”

“Likewise,” smirked Mulligan, sitting down. “I almost feel like we’ve already met. Didn’t take me long to realise Hamilton doesn’t _stop_ speaking.”

“He’s right, I don’t,” Hamilton agreed, grabbing a menu chirpily. “It’s how I introduce my friends to each other. I overload them with constant complimentary information, so that by the time they meet face to face they’re already half in love. I’m like a platonic match-maker!”

“And I guess I have only myself to blame,” Mulligan smiled crookedly. “How different these last few months of my life would have turned out if I hadn’t taken pity on some poor dumb kid in the middle of the night, desperately trying to wheel a suitcase away from people intent on mugging him.”

“Ah yes, I have heard this story,” Lafayette nodded. “You were very chivalrous.”

“Heroic, even,” Hamilton chimed in. “Hey! _From zero to hero in no time flat, zero to hero just like that-”_

“Haha,” said Mulligan boredly. “Keep that up and I’ll start to regret letting you camp out on my couch.”

“And getting me this job,” Hamilton added, gesturing at the pizza place. “Thanks again for that, by the way. I would never have made coming to New York without this guy,” he told Lafayette. “No doubt about it. He’s my Guardian Angel.”

“What about you, Lafayette?” Mulligan changed the subject. “How are you finding the city? Can’t be too much of a culture shock, after somewhere like Paris.”

Lafayette shook his head. “The biggest problem was the language barrier,” he confessed. “But things became a lot easier after I met my first Francophone,” he inclined his head at Hamilton. “And then my second not long after. I have really been very fortunate in my choice of friends.”

“Lafayette knows Tim Pickering and all that lot,” said Hamilton with obvious disdain. “You know. The ones who think they’re from Boyz n the Hood.”

“Yes, they are really quite…how you say? Jarring?” said Lafayette, with a questioning look at Hamilton who nodded. “I went to Tim’s party and I did not have a very good time. But I did meet Laurens, my other first-best friend and second Francophone, so it was not a complete loss.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a second,” Mulligan put his hand on the table. “Laurens? John Laurens?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Hamilton groaned. “Just when I thought I hadn’t heard enough about this guy.”

“Yes!” Lafayette exclaimed, ignoring Hamilton. “Do you know him?”

“Hell yeah do I know him. He’s my boy.”

“Mine too!” Lafayette squealed excitedly. “Isn’t he superb? He has such incredible comedic timing.”

“He is excellent,” Mulligan nodded. “Very funny guy. He’s got that perfect blend of humour and melancholy, really nails that sad clown vibe.”

“Yes he is, qu’est-ce que c’est? Wry. And sarcastic, like a court jester,” Lafayette agreed. “He reminds me of the Friend who wears the vests, vous comprenez? The one who lives with the charismatic Italian.”

“Chandler,” said Hamilton dully when Mulligan looked clueless.

“Oh my God, this one time,” gushed Mulligan. “He turned up to a gathering wearing _light up sneakers_. When I asked him where he got them he shrugged and said ‘Macy’s’.”

“But you know that his father is a Congressman?” Lafayette pressed on. “I did not realise until much later, when I saw his picture in an Onion article.”

“Eye on Senate too,” Mulligan nodded. “You should hear Laurens talk about it, never heard so much apathy in my life. But he’s so smart once you get him started – he did this massive rant about intentional destruction of marine wildlife in the Adriatic this one time, it was super cool.”

“Ooh yeah, political apathy and prioritising fish over people,” Hamilton muttered from behind his menu. “So cool.”

“What’s he doing these days?” Mulligan asked Lafayette. “I heard he ditched Pickering’s. Last I spoke to him he was really getting into his music.”

“I think he is a little at a loss with himself, now that he does not have a group so much,” Lafayette said thoughtfully, then suddenly clapped his hands. “We should invite him here! Alexander has not met him yet.”

“Oh no, really, we don’t-” Hamilton protested weakly but was cut off by Mulligan snapping his fingers.

“Yes! Hold on, I’ll call him.” Mulligan reached for his phone, entirely oblivious to Hamilton’s pleading distress. “Yo, dude. Are you around?” A beat where Hamilton prayed desperately, crossing his fingers under the table. “Me and your boy Laf…Lafayette? Lafayette and I are hanging out at that pizza place, you know the one where we met. Can you get your ass down here?” _Please may he not be able to get his ass down here, please may he be sick, Lord, please let him be sick-_ “Sweet. See you in ten.” Mulligan put away his phone, readdressing Hamilton and Lafayette. “He’ll be here in ten.”

“Great,” said Hamilton boredly. “The mythical John Laurens of the light-up sneakers. This is…exactly how I wanted this evening to turn out.”

Mulligan and Lafayette proceeded to narrate John Laurens related stories, deteriorating into raucous peels of laughter and headshaking. Meanwhile Hamilton stewed silently behind his menu, debating the pros and cons of testing out his new fake ID. He was just about to order himself a vodka and coke when, after what felt like ten dragging hours the bell above the door tinkled, announcing the appearance of a tall boy wearing a beanie and heavy Adidas jacket, even though it was still mild out.

“Hey man,” John Laurens engaged Mulligan in some exceedingly complex handshake, before reaching across the table to bump fists with Lafayette. “How are my craziest cats?”

“Laurens, this is Alexander Hamilton,” Lafayette gestured to Hamilton, who was currently looking like he had been forced to down a large bottle of pickle juice. “He does a double major of Economics and Politics, has just been made Treasurer of the Black Student Union and is running for student council next month. Also, he speaks French.”

“Oh ya?” said Laurens interestedly, taking the spare seat next to Hamilton. “Hujambo.”

Hamilton gave him a funny look. “That’s not French.”

“No,” Laurens chuckled. “It’s Swahili.”

“Oh, are you Swahili?”

Laurens shook his head. “No.”

Hamilton blinked at him. “Okay.” He drummed his fingers on the table, looking around desperately for someone who might be a bearer of alcohol.

“Yeah good point, shall we order?” asked Mulligan, misinterpreting his distraction. “Laurens, do you wanna share a pepperoni?”

Laurens shook his head. “No thanks. Think I’m gonna go for a salad and resist the ‘za,” he replied, tacking on, “Hey, now I know how the Bolsheviks felt.”

Both Mulligan and Lafayette released identical snorts of unattractive laughter. Hamilton gazed on stonily.

The waiter came and took their orders. After they’d left Mulligan and Lafayette launched into an animated conversation about Paris fashion week, leaving Hamilton and Laurens to sit in increasingly awkward silence. When this finally proved too much to bear Hamilton forced himself to bite the bullet, turning to Laurens to make conversation.

“So,” he began, fixing his voice into what he hoped was an appropriately aimable tone. “Lafayette said you guys met at a party?”

Laurens nodded, a little shamefacedly. “Er ya,” he scratched the back of his neck. Hamilton wondered if maybe it would help if he took off his beanie, seeing as they were, you know. Inside. “I don’t think I made the best first impression. I was pretty off my face, ya know.” He lowered his voice. “Since I was with Molly all night.”

Hamilton frowned non-comprehendingly. “Is…that your girlfriend?” he asked, not sure what he was supposed to do with this information.

Laurens laughed out loud, stopping abruptly at the sight of Hamilton’s face. “Er, no,” he confirmed. “Molly is MDMA.”

“Oh,” said Hamilton, feeling blood rise in his cheeks. “Right. What fun, for you.”

“Ya well,” Laurens shrugged. “I think I’m gonna cut it out for the rest of the year. It was fun when we were seventeen but now it just feels a little juvenile, ya know?”

“Mmhm, yah _,_ _totally,”_ drawled Hamilton, taking a sip of his drink. “And you know Mulligan how…?”

“Some people I used to hang out with buy weed from his friend,” finished Laurens.

Hamilton blew out a breath. “Of course,” he racked his brains for conversation starters. “So do you do anything besides drugs, or…?”

“Political History,” said Laurens, looking unenthusiastic.

“Oh awesome!” Hamilton seized at the straw like it was a life-raft. “Economics has always been my best subject, since I’m naturally mathematically minded and it’s probably the most useful degree for first-gens besides Law, which I’m planning to go into anyway but I figured this was a fast route which would allow more flexibility academically and give me a working edge for when I go into politics. Still, I was strongly tempted to do History. How are you finding it?”

“It’s alright,” replied Laurens, a little taken aback by his fervour. “I’m not super into the political side…but the Crusades are pretty cool, I guess.”

“Uhuh, yeah,” Hamilton nodded encouragingly. “Plus it must be awesome to see how the context of imperialist colonialism directly influences the domestic and global agenda of the present, the connection between Las Casas and European neo-liberal rhetoric, etcetera.”

Laurens blinked at him. “Las Casas?”

“Bartolomé de Las Casas,” said Hamilton slowly, as if drawing out the syllables would help jog Laurens’ memory.

Laurens obliviousness was evident in the rise and fall of his shoulders.

 _Jesus fucking Christ._ “Right,” Hamilton grit his teeth. “So I guess you’re not looking to go into international policy then.”

“Not my first choice,” Laurens agreed. “My dad wants me to do Law and eventually politics after that. But if it were up to me I’d prefer something more science-y. Veterinary, zoology…conservation, maybe.”

“Animals,” deadpanned Hamilton.

“I know it’s dumb,” said Laurens quickly. “Which is why he’s the boss. I mean, if I _really_ had my way I’d probably just end up tryna be the second Avicii or something.”

“What is that,” asked Hamilton dully. “Some kind of biologist?”

Laurens stared at him.

*

_Present Day_

Laurens had already been laying awake for several hours when Hamilton rolled over and smiled at him.

“Hey,” he said sleepily, stifling a yawn and pressing a kiss to his temple. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine,” replied Laurens, not exactly truthfully. He felt remarkably well-rested, given the fact that he had mostly spent the night watching a curl lift on and off Hamilton’s face on every snoring exhale.

Hamilton yawned again and sat up with a dramatic stretch. “Coffee?” he asked, already pushing himself off the bed. “Even though you make it better. Tell me your secret.”

“I take the coffee out of the sachets begore putting them in the water,” Laurens replied.

Hamilton flipped him off. “That was one time,” he protested, stumbling blearily over to the illegal kettle and leafing through his drawer. “Damnit, we’re out. Hold on, I’ll go pilfer some.”

He left the room for the kitchen, taking the kettle with him. Laurens reached for his phone off the bedside table, scrolling through his messages until he had found Lafayette.

_L: ok so ya development_

He sent the message, pulse fluttering erratically as he waited for a reply. Seconds later, three dots flashed across the screen.

_GdMlMdL: ?_

Laurens huffed out a breath, running his hands through his hair as he struggled how to word it.

_JL: think its official that im gay_

_GdMlMdL: ..._

_I will need more to go on thàn that John Laurens_

_Considering it has been rather official that you are gay for some time_

_JL: just bottomed_

_GdMlMdL: …_

_Ok you do know_

_you DO KNOW_

_That that ís not the qualifier for being gay_

_JL: well ya like in theory_

_GdMlMdL: I hope you realise you are being incredibly sexist not to mention homophobic right now_

Laurens rolled his eyes, frustrated that Lafayette appeared to be deliberately misinterpreting him but not knowing how to articulate himself any better. 

_JL: can u just_

_let me have my feelings pls_

_GdMlMdL: ..._

_Fine._

_did you enjoy it?_

_JL: …_

_yes. i didnt think i would like it as much as i did_

_GdMlMdL: well that's nice. I bet Alexander is happy. he has been talking about wanting to try for á while now_

_JL: ha. dont mention it 2 him_

_GdMlMdL: What that his boyfriend likes it when he fucks him? surely that is something he should be able to tell?_

_JL: uh well ya. he could def tell. so no need or whatever_

_GdMlMdL: LOL!!!!!_

_JL: **SO NO NEED OR WHATEVER**_

The door opened and Laurens’ phone leapt out his hand. Hamilton smiled, clicking it shut behind him. “Alright?”

Laurens breathed out, giving his heart a second to slow down. “Yeah,” he replied. He scratched the back of his neck.

Hamilton passed him a mug of coffee. Laurens took it gingerly, his hand shaking slightly on the handle. He took a sip. Across from him Hamilton lifted his own mug to his lips, keeping his gaze fixed and intent on Laurens. They locked eyes as they mirrored each others’ movements, overly intense and smouldering until, unable to bear it anymore, they cracked up at the same time.

“What?” Laurens demanded as Hamilton snickered, despite the fact that he was also grinning stupidly.

“Nothing,” Hamilton shrugged, smirking into the depths of his coffee.              

Laurens picked up a pillow from the bed and whacked Hamilton’s legs with it. Hamilton squawked, lifting his mug defensively.

“Why are your pillows so lumpy?” Laurens asked perplexedly, squeezing it between his hands.

 _“I_ don’t know,” answered Hamilton. “Maybe because _someone_ chewed them to shit last night.”

Laurens whacked Hamilton again, blushing furiously to the roots of his hair. This time Hamilton cackled, smug delight plastered all over his face.

“You were so cute,” he teased.

“Shut up.”

“You were so _loud.”_

“I’m warning you, Hamilton.”

“Or you’ll what?” Hamilton raised a mocking eyebrow. “Scream?”

Laurens lifted the pillow to his face, burying himself in it so that Hamilton wouldn’t see how red he was. Hamilton continued to laugh sadistically; Laurens turned his face into the pillow, embarrassment sending blood drumming into his ears, drowning him out. He felt rather than heard Hamilton approach, the weak mattress springs creaking below him with the extra weight. Then light flooding as gently Hamilton pushed the pillow away, hooking his finger under his chin.

“Hey,” he said softly, the corner of his mouth still twitching with amusement but his voice deep and sincere.

Laurens felt his shame bleed from him, breath catching and eyelids growing automatically heavy at the sight of Hamilton’s parted mouth. Hamilton pulled him into the kiss. His mouth was heated with coffee, his skin from hogging the duvet. Everything about him spoke of warmth and comfort. Laurens’ hands clung to the hem of Hamilton’s t-shirt, breathing deeply to inhale him in. He smelt like the both of them, and the realisation was somehow just as heady and intoxicating as the swiftly cooling mugs at their sides.

They kissed for a long time, lips meeting so sweetly it made Laurens’ heart flutter. When they finally parted Hamilton’s lids flickered, eyes still half-closed.

“I gotta go,” he said apologetically.

Laurens pouted, wrapping his arms clingingly around Hamilton’s waist. “No, you don’t.”

Hamilton laughed, pushing Laurens’ arms away which only tightened their hold. “Yes, I do,” he insisted, easing off the mattress and out of Laurens’ tentacle-like grip. “I have to study. And then I have a suit fitting for the dinner at two.”

“Study here,” suggested Laurens and when Hamilton looked sceptical, “Fine, but I’ll come with you to the fitting.”

Hamilton shook his head. “I gotta spend time with my girls,” he replied regretfully before adding, “And Tallmadge, apparently, for reasons unknown. Anyway, it’s bad luck for you to see me before the event.”

“That’s only if we were getting married,” Laurens pointed out.

“Is it?” Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “Oh well. I still want to keep some element of surprise. You’ve never seen me in a suit – I’m telling you, I make James Bond look like Austin Powers.” Laurens burst out laughing; undeterred, Hamilton winked roguishly, sliding his hand seductively down his torso. “What, you don’t believe me?” he thrust his pelvis. “You don’t believe in this groovy shagadelic bod?”

“Please stop,” begged Laurens.

Hamilton shook his head, “Never,” he replied, still thrusting. “Hey, what’s your favourite song? Maybe for our anniversary I’ll do you a lap dance.”

“There’s no such thing as a favourite song,” Laurens protested. “It depends on so many variables. What the vibe is, where you are, who you’re with-”

“Ok, but say all the variables are there,” Hamilton cut him off. “Like, the vibe is right…all the stars have aligned, or whatever. What song do you want to hear? If you HAD to choose.”

“Fine. If I HAD to choose one,” Laurens considered so briefly Hamilton thought he already had the answer when he first asked the question. “Temptation by New Order.”

Hamilton frowned. “I don't think I know it.”

“You would if you heard it.”

“Sing it to me.”

 _“Up down turn around...please don’t let me hit the ground,”_ Laurens sang obediently. _“Tonight I think I'll walk alone...I’ll find my soul as I go home...wooooo woooo.”_

“Oh _that_ one,” Hamilton wrinkled his nose sceptically. “Really? That’s your favourite song? I mean, it’s okay I guess.”

“In the moment,” Laurens insisted. “Like, when you feel it you know.”

“Ok,” said Hamilton, unconvinced. “If you say so.”

He turned around to take his shirt off, rummaging in his drawers for something to wear. The watery light from the window fell onto his back, illuminating the notches of his spine. Laurens could see his ribs through the dark skin, casting harsh shadows that sat at odds with the gentle curve protruding from the waistline of his boxers. He danced a little as he hummed the Austin Powers theme tune to himself and a sudden knowledge gripped Laurens’ heart, so swift and sure in a way that he had never been more certain of anything else in his life.

“I love you,” he said.

Hamilton’s head jerked round. He stared at Laurens, eyes wide with shock. 

“You don’t have to say it back," Laurens told him quickly. “I just wanted you to know.”

 _“I loved you better than your own kiiiinnnn diiiiiiiid,”_ Hamilton sang, face screwed painfully with forcedness. _“From the very staaaart, I don’t blaaame you much for wanting to be freeeee-”_

“You don’t have to say it back, but don’t turn it into a joke,” Laurens interrupted him firmly.

Hamilton cringed. “Sorry,” he said. “Um...thank you?”

Laurens smiled, amused. “You’re welcome.”

“It’s not that I don't want to say it back,” Hamilton felt flustered with the need to explain himself. “It’s just like, really a lot. And with Anne-”

“Alex,” Laurens cut him off gently and Hamilton felt overwhelmed with gratitude for it. “It’s fine. I understand.”

Hamilton exhaled with relief. “Ok. Well, I think you’re the shit,” he told Laurens. “And I like you so, so much. Like, it’s honestly ridiculous.”

Laurens grinned and laughed, ducking his head slightly. It was so cute Hamilton felt maybe he could say it, like maybe if he did it again the words would fall right out his mouth without him forcing them.

He got dressed. When he was done he turned to Laurens, chewing his lip. “I have to go,” he said again.

Laurens nodded. “Okay.”

“I’ll call you later,” said Hamilton.

Laurens nodded again. Hamilton bent forwards to kiss him.

 _“Kwaheri,_ kiddo,” he whispered.

Laurens smiled, flitting his thumb over Hamilton’s cheek. _“Tutaonana baadaye.”_

He left.

*

“I said I thought he was the shit,” said Hamilton, arms stretched out to his sides. “And that I liked him, obviously.”

“Oh well that’s good,” Peggy traded an exasperated look with Angelica. “As long as he knows that you _like_ him.”

Hamilton tried to give her a scathing look, only it was difficult as he had her back to her and she wasn’t looking at his reflection.

“This is a big deal for me,” he told them both. “Angelica, tell Peggy that this is a big deal for me.”

“This is a big deal for him,” Angelica informed Peggy. “First adult relationship and all.”

 _“Not_ true.”

“Sorry. I meant first relationship _as an actual adult.”_

Again, Hamilton tried to give her a black look but settled on lifting his middle fingers, thus risking the tailor’s ire. “You can’t shame me for what I did when I was seventeen _and_ have your favourite film be Call Me By Your Name,” he chastised her. “Besides. You’re only insulting your sister by not counting her. Where _is_ she, by the way?” he demanded of Peggy. “Not that your pubescent venom isn’t entertaining as always.”

“She’s at Church,” replied Peggy, with a smirk at Angelica. “Hey. Isn’t that where you should be?”

Angelica scowled, flicking Peggy with her talon-like nails while Hamilton let out a hoot of laughter. “Good one,” said Hamilton approvingly. “At least _someone’s_ committed in their relationship with a JC.”

“Neither of you are funny,” snarled Angelica, folding her arms over her chest. “And FYI I’m meeting Jonny after this.”

“Make sure you take a shot of Meade to prepare yourself beforehand,” joked Hamilton. “Right, Peggy?”

Peggy pulled a face. “No, that was bad,” she replied. “I can’t endorse that.”

Hamilton sighed. “Laurens would have liked it,” he said mournfully.

Peggy’s face wrinkled in confusion. “Why do you call your boyfriend by his last name?”

“I don’t always.”

“Why do you sometimes?”

“Er…” Hamilton thought about this and shrugged, forgetting the tailor. “Aesthetic?”

Peggy blew out an annoyed breath. “Men are so weird.”

“Yeah? Well who asked you?” demanded Hamilton challengingly. “In fact, why are you even here except as a tofu substitute for your much nicer sister?”

“I have more right to be here than _he_ does,” retorted Peggy, jerking her head at Abraham Woodhull, who was sitting uncomfortably beside her. “I don’t even know who he is.”

“He’s Abe,” said Tallmadge.

“I’m Abe,” said Abe.

“He’s getting a suit fitted,” Hamilton informed her. “For a very real, very prestigious event, to which you are not invited.”

Peggy pulled a face that, even in the reflection of the mirror, quite clearly translated to _Big Whoop._ Hamilton examined the cuffs of his suit, turned neatly over his wrist so that the bones protruded from the stark material. He had never owned one first-hand before, all his other blazers and interview-wear being off-rack charity shop purchases. But it was basic fact that every man needs one good suit and he had been putting off buying one for long enough, even if it meant he would need to starve for a couple months. Besides, he looked good in it.

“I can’t believe you _sang_ at him,” Angelica shook her head. “If Jonny did that to me after telling him I loved him, I would break up with him on the spot.”

“Clearly, my John is the superior,” Hamilton replied.

“Hey, you know what you should do,” chirped Peggy suddenly. “You should round up all the Johns you know and make them fight to the death. That way, you’ll know which one is the ultimate fighting champion.”

“That’s a good idea,” Hamilton agreed. “Except…well. André would probably win. He could just stand in the corner calling for peace and love and everyone would stop what they’re doing to throw roses at his feet.”

“You spend an awful lot of time eulogising John André for someone whose boyfriend just said ‘I love you’,” snarked Angelica.

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he said. “Honestly Ange, I think I’ve been very good about this whole Dick Meade situation. But if you really want to go there, I will.”

“Hackles down, Hamilton,” Angelica rolled her eyes. “Jesus, I was kidding.”

“Kidder Mead-ing,” said Peggy promptly. Angelica smacked her.

“Alright,” said the tailor, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “I think we’re done with the adjustments. Take a look and tell me what you think.”

Hamilton turned to the side, looking himself up and down from the new angle. A vaguely familiar person stared back, like a face he thought he might have seen before in a crowd or on the subway.

“Difficult to say,” he stated at last. “I think I will need to try it in a booth with better lighting. Abe,” he added, with a significant look at Woodhull and Tallmadge. “Do you wanna come with me and compare measurements?”

“Yeees,” said Woodhull, a little too slowly to be entirely convincing but it didn’t matter; Peggy and Angelica were too busy sniping at each other to notice.

Hamilton led the way to one of the other changing booths, stepping aside to let Woodhull enter first. Once the curtain had fallen behind them, he turned to face him expectantly.

“Right,” Hamilton said at once. “What have you got for me?”

Abraham reached into the pocket of his jeans, withdrawing a folded piece of paper which he handed to Hamilton. “The names of the officers who held down Laurens,” he replied. “And the guys who assaulted Jamal Curtis. I managed to dig up a little background; apparently this isn’t the first time some of these names have been connected with heavy-handedness in response to situations involving minorities. But yeah, you can see for yourself.”

“Quelle surprise,” muttered Hamilton, slipping the folded paper into his back pocket. “Thanks a lot, Abe.”

“Anytime,” replied Woodhull. He paused a moment before adding, “You’re really going through a lot for this guy. You must really care about him.”

The semi-familiar face in the mirror twitched in a half-smile, as Hamilton turned to adjust his lapel. “Yeah,” he said, squaring his shoulders and staring down his reflection. “I guess I really do.”


	19. Multi-Love - Unknown Metal Orchestra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> multi-love has got me on my knees, we were one, then become three

“So of course this guy was all like ‘Excuse you, I’m actually in a very successful reggae band,” Church waved his burger precariously, sending flicks of lettuce flying, before taking an enormous bite. “And I’m telling you Ange, I had to restrain myself from laughing right in that smug bastard’s face. Because reggae…and I’ll go on the record saying this…all reggae is witless talentless shite. Listen Ange. Listen. Do you know how easy it is to play rhythm guitar in a reggae band? It’s bollocks. It’s not even music. It’s just the same thing over and over again, _tch-tch. Tch-tch._ The only thing you have to fuck up is the timing. To admit out loud ‘I’m in a reggae band’ is basically saying that you have no musical ability whatsoever.”

“Apart from Bob Marley, right?” asked Angelica, picking unenthusiastically at her fries.

“Well, Marley is different,” said Church dismissively. “Bob Marley isn’t _reggae._ He’s like, a genre all of his own. Pan-Africanism, you know. Plus his importance was more as a social figure than as an artist, if you ask me.”

 _I didn’t,_ thought Angelica to herself, but before she could commit to saying it out loud Church was speaking again.

“Same with jazz,” Church continued. “When people say they like jazz, what they’re _really_ talking about is blues and soul. No one really _likes jazz._ That’s not what Duke Ellington or Miles Davis were really _doing,_ they were reaching a deeper level of African-American consciousness which people have mistakenly labelled-”

“Wait, I’m sorry,” Angelica interrupted him. “Are you trying to tell me that jazz musicians Duke Ellington and Miles Davis were in fact _not_ jazz musicians?”

“It’s all about your interpretation of sound,” said Church through a thick mouthful of cheese and gherkin. “You have to _know_ the difference. You wouldn’t get it from just casual listening.”

“Right,” said Angelica tersely, making a mental note to ask John Laurens about it later.

“Then again, most of what they call music these days is a bloody joke,” Church went on. “Everything derivative, everything samey. I can’t remember the last time I heard a song and went ‘wow! This is new’ you know? ‘This is really something’.”

“Have you heard Unknown Mortal Orchestra?” asked Angelica, the first band she could Laurens talking about springing to mind.

Church shook his head. Angelica plugged in her earphones and passed him her phone. Church listened for about five seconds, halfway through the distinctive opening before pulling a face and sliding it back to her.

“See, this exactly what I mean,” he told her. “Steely Dan were already doing this way back in 1972. This is just some regurgitated, watered-down, pop garbage. Easy listening, but not exactly _nouveau._ ”

A buzz as the phone vibrated. Angelica picked it up quickly, sending up a silent prayer of thanks. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Meade’s voice, steady and relaxed through the receiver. “So I’m tryna pick between two films, Call Me By Your Name or Lady Bird. Suggestions?”

Angelica grinned, a warm, glowing feeling already spreading its way through her stomach. “Sorry babe, I have to take this,” she told Church, hurriedly leaving the Five Guys before returning the call. “Someone’s in a mood for Timothée Chalamet,” she answered Meade. _“_ But dude, what the hell? We’re supposed to watch Call Me By Your Name _together.”_

“Yeah, and I thought about that,” replied Meade, a little apologetically. “But then I was worried it might be kind of an awkward one to watch with another person. You know how it is with sexy films. You’re so on edge through the porn that you don’t get a chance to appreciate it properly.”

Angelica shook her head, huffing loudly so that Meade would hear her disappointment. “You’re weaker than I thought, Richard,” she said mournfully. “Call yourself a cinephile.”

“I’m only human,” Meade replied. “What are you doing now? If you’re free I can maybe steel myself.”

Angelica swore, glancing through the window to where Church was stealing her fries. “I can’t,” she sighed regretfully. “I’m with Jonny.”

“Oh. Right,” Meade’s voice was casual, utterly unperturbed. Angelica wasn’t sure if she was disappointed by that or not. “Let me guess. He’s telling you that Jesus is based on Cesare Borgia and that jazz isn’t a real genre or something?”

“He just got back from London,” Angelica said, skirting over the jab. “He’s here for two weeks.” She hesitated, not wanting to say it out loud for fear of admitting it to herself. “He has a _twang.”_

Meade barked out a laugh that didn’t sound entirely real. “A real one?” he asked. “Or does he just say ‘shite’ instead of ‘shit’ and throw in a ‘bloody’ every now and then?”

“You’re obnoxious,” Angelica told him. “Anyway, I have to go. My fries are getting cold.”

“Don’t tell me you’re at Five Guys. That place is over-priced as shit. Sorry. Shite.”

“Yeah I am. Not gonna lie, the food kinda tastes like sawdust.”

“I mean, I did warn you.”

“I know you did. You were right.”

“Can I get that in writing?”

“Leaving.”

“Sorry, sorry,” the lazy amusement in Meade’s voice sent a trill running through her. “Right, Lady Bird it is.”

“Let me know what you think,” said Angelica.

“Cheerio mate. Enjoy your chips.”

Angelica rolled her eyes, still smiling fondly to herself as she hung up. Glancing once again through the window, she let out a last frustrated sigh before steeling herself and heading back inside.

*

“They call it the ‘whiskey that warmed the revolution’,” Washington related to his audience, teetering the bottle so that the bronzed amber liquid caught the light. “On account that according to legend, _General_ George Washington bought enough at the distillery to get his troops through the winter at Valley Forge. A fitting context, considering Michter’s itself revolutionised American rye and bourbon.”

“Is that so?” asked Major Hewlett, accepting the glass Washington offered him and lifting it up to his eyeline with curiosity. “I was led to believe it had not been nearly so popular since the eighties.”

“It suffered somewhat of a decline after its heyday,” Washington admitted. “However, it underwent a resurgence after Magliocco took ownership. His best decision by far was moving Michter’s from Pennsylvania to Louisiana after recreating the whiskey from scratch in the 2000s, vaulting it up to ‘heritage’ level. Now it accounts for about one percent of the American whiskey market, reaching up to no less than five-thousand dollars for a limited-edition bottle.”

He poured his own glass, toasting the group and nudging Hewlett to take a taste. Hewlett lifted his whiskey and swallowed dutifully, smacking his lips with appreciation.

“Very good,” he concluded to the waiting company. “Although, if I may dare say, not quite a Scotch.”

The joke was met with automatic laughter, as though it had been awaited anxiously all this time.

“How long have you been away now?” asked Martha Washington as her husband topped up the glasses.

“Five years this February,” replied the Major with a slight inclination of his head. “I had hoped to be back for summer, but I am afraid there is still some trouble regarding my military pension.”

“You must miss it dreadfully,” frowned Dr de Berdt sympathetically. “I was in Scotland only last May. Truly beautiful country; Joseph and I did the Six Peaks, views up Ben Nevis like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Ah, I envy you, madam,” smiled Hewlett sadly. “Jessie and I had attempted to alleviate our homesickness by assaying the Rockies…but truthfully, there is nowhere quite like Scotland for walking.”

“And is Jessie your wife?” asked Joseph Reed interestedly.

Hewlett fixed Adams with a solemn, searching gaze, weighing his open expression with suspicion. “No sir,” he replied after a moment, with grave dignity. “Jessie is my spaniel.”

Dr de Berdt made an odd noise which turned quickly into a cough, and she and Reed exchanged a glance. In order to distract from them smirking into their glasses, Washington quickly searched around the room, and was gratified by the entrance of the latest group of guests.

“Ah, perhaps Hamilton will be able to share your sentiments!” he stepped out a little with his arms outstretched like a show performer in his hurry to welcome him. “A Scotsman himself, aren’t you, Alexander?”

“Er, well, sort of,” Hamilton blinked, a little taken aback by the suddenness of the reception as he was propelled into the circle. “I mean…my dad was. I think I only went there once on holiday when I was younger.”

“Is that so?” asked Hewlett, squinting at him kindly if a little owlishly. “Whereabouts?”

“Glen Coe,” replied Hamilton. “To climb the mountain. We did the ridge, and everything.”

“Ah Aonach Eagach,” Hewlett nodded solemnly. “Yes, I know it well. It can be gruelling for children, especially in bad weather. I hope your parents kitted you out with adequate clothing.”

“Eh, not really,” Hamilton winced. “I mean, it was my fault, I didn’t like the sweater they bought me so I left it behind. I caught mild hyperthermia, but hey-ho, no biggie. I survived.”

“Alexander really is a spirit of great fortitude,” said Washington affectionately, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Hamilton smiled up at him, surprised and pleased by the praise.

“And where is your mother from, if you don’t mind me asking?” said Dr de Berdt, eyes flitting over Hamilton’s complexion.

“Virgin Isles,” Hamilton replied without hesitation, despite, Laurens noted, the slight involuntary twitch of his left eyelid.

“What a lovely mix,” commented Dr de Berdt, eyeing Hamilton like he was a jazz compilation, or a fruit cocktail. “Spend much time there either?”

“I’m from there, actually,” replied Hamilton. “Although I haven’t been back in…two years?”

“Three years,” Laurens muttered into his ear.

Hamilton nodded, patting Laurens’ arm. “He’s right,” he confirmed. “Three years.”

“And what about you?” asked Reed, interest switching to Laurens.

Laurens’ smile was crooked. “I’m from South Carolina.”

“Joe, this is John Laurens,” Washington stepped in swiftly. “Harry’s son.”

 “Oh, of course!” Reed’s eyes widened automatically and he extended his hand. “The resemblance is clear to me now. You have your father’s nose, and jaw-line.”

“Thanks,” said Laurens, smile still not quite reaching his eyes.

“Hamilton has been working as my assistant,” Washington informed them, changing the subject. “No doubt you’ll recognise his name on several emails.”

“Trying to manage this one on top of your studies?” Reed winked at Washington. “That must be quite demanding.”

Hamilton shrugged. “I would have had to hold down a part-time job anyway,” he replied modestly. “And I have a lot of experience with office work. I have to admit though, keeping him organised might just be my administrative Everest.”

The jest was met with another round of appreciative laughter, mild though it was. Hamilton seized on the victory, gripping Laurens’ elbow before anyone could interrogate him further.

“Excuse us, we’re just going to get a drink,” he told the circle.

“Don’t leave us too long, Alex,” Martha smiled and titled her glass at him.

“I couldn’t do that to you, Martha,” replied Hamilton, flashing a garish smile that he hoped came across more charming than forced. “Save my spot.”

 

He drove Laurens towards the long table at the back of the room where two surly bartenders stood guard over the alcohol. Hamilton strode up to them with the kind of unabashed confidence privy to someone who had been in a similar position many times before.

“Two champagnes please,” he ordered. “Well…we both know it’s prosecco, but I’m willing to sustain the illusion if you are. Do you want champagne?” he turned to Laurens. “I can probably get Washington to dig it out if you want. He’s hiding it for when all the important people turn up but _I_ know _where.”_

“This,” said Laurens through gritted teeth. “Is hell.”

“Yeah, it is,” Hamilton nodded, pressing a flute into Laurens’ hands. “And we’ve been here, what? Five minutes? Less than. Another three hours before we can leave without being impolite. But hey, cheer up. The fun hasn’t even started yet, we still have a hundred excruciating rounds of ignorance and presumption to wade through. Hey, let’s play a game. Take a drink every time someone makes an intrusive and/or borderline racist observation.”

“Three hours,” Laurens repeated weakly, eyes widening as the prospect of the evening dawned upon him.

“Hamilton!” came a jovial voice.

“Professor Knox, sir!” Hamilton switched on his grin so easily it was as if it had never left his face. “How are you, sir?”

“Very well, young man,” replied Knox, suppressing a hiccough with a hand on his stomach. “Gates, do you know Hamilton?”

A droopy-eyed, hang-dogged man with wispy white hair and spindly grey spectacles shook Hamilton’s hand.

“And yourself?” Knox prompted after the introductions were made. “I hear you’ve been causing quite the storm, as usual.”

“I promise you sir, all tales of my exploits are grossly exaggerated,” Hamilton replied, taking a sip of his glass with a smirk.

Knox let out an admiring laugh. “Modest only when it suits you, eh Hamilton?” he gestured to Gates. “When Hamilton came to me for interview, I told him that his college essay sounded rather like he was boasting. To which he replied that he only ever boasted by telling the truth.”

“You still offered me a job,” Hamilton reminded him.

“Yes,” Knox looked sour. “And you turned me down. You let me know the second you get bored of manning George’s journal. Although of course it might land me in some hot water, what with all the contentious fire you’ve been spouting recently.”

“The truth, do you mean?” asked Hamilton mildly. “John can testify to that, if you’d rather hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

“Laurens, isn’t it?” Knox shook Laurens’ hand. “I know your father, of course. And I saw your name in the papers. Terrible incident, just godawful. Makes you ashamed for this country.”

“They didn’t press charges, I hope?” Gates peered at Laurens, pale eyes luminous over the edge of his wireframes.

“Er, no,” Laurens confirmed, parroting the words he’d heard his father say on numerous occasions. “We managed to come to an understanding.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Gates severely. “Would be a tremendous waste for a young man of potential to be so associated. I’m sure you’re relieved to have put the unpleasantness behind you.”

“Well, it isn’t really behind us, is it?” said Hamilton. “We still have the Curtis trial, and tensions are still high both on and off campus. John’s been doing an excellent job,” he flashed an adoring smile up at him. “Allowing his face and what happened to him to serve as reminder for the larger issues going on in this country.”

“Ah, another activist?” Knox smiled indulgently. “Nothing like the passion of youth. Good on you both. What is it you do, Laurens? Economist and aspiring lawyer like Hamilton?”

“Political historian,” Laurens answered dully, as one who has many times before. “But uh, yeah. Law school is…definitely on the cards.”

“We’re going to run the country together,” Hamilton added, still beaming at Laurens.

“I don’t doubt it,” said Knox, amused. “Young blood like yours is probably exactly what this country needs. Oh look, here’s Adams. Adams!” He waved, oblivious to the sinking feeling mirrored on Hamilton’s expression. “You’ll already be acquainted with these two firebrands, of course?”

Adams eyes travelled to Hamilton’s, narrowing as they settled on his face. “Indeed,” he said, thin mouth twitching in response. “I have the immense fortune of having Hamilton in my class, although I know Laurens less well. How’re you finding this semester?” he turned to the latter.

“Pretty well, thanks,” replied Laurens.

“I think Hamilton knows he has struggled somewhat with the step-up,” Adams informed Knox. “He has a habit of making leaps of logic without laying out the connection, because he assumes that everybody is quite as smart as he is.”

“Can’t blame a man for optimism,” smiled Hamilton sweetly.

“You can for arrogance,” replied Adams. “And fatuous comments without supportive evidence, or the bringing in of context.”

“Oh, you mean like citing human trafficking as an example of cultural relativism?” asked Hamilton, voice rising in volume.

Instead of replying, Adams merely smiled thinly and turned back to Knox. “We don’t always see eye to eye.”

“That must make for spirited debate,” chimed in Gates.

Adams hummed non-committally, eyes scanning the room as if in search of someone to rescue him. Laurens saw them become steely, his mouth pulling taut with sourness.

“For God’s sake,” Adams lowered his voice, talking conspiratorially to Knox. “He’s brought his haram with him.”

Laurens followed Adams’ gaze to a far corner beside the canapé table where a tall man with a prominent stomach seemed to be telling a story to raucous effect. Laurens recognised him as Professor von Steuben from the Languages department. He was flanked by two young grad students, both of whom were looking very handsomely bored.

“Ah,” Knox was wincing. “I had rather thought it was a rumour.”

“What?” asked Hamilton loudly.

“If only,” said Adams through gritted teeth, ignoring Hamilton. “Honestly, he has always been a perfectly shameless individual…but at an event like this.”

“Ah, but we mustn’t judge, must we Adams?” said Knox, voice hearty with forced joviality. “Not really our place. Who’s to deny an old boy his sport, and he’s had a hell of a life-”

“But at his age,” Gates pulled a face, looking extremely Puritan. “Department head. And such a well-respected academic-”

“Who are we _talking_ about?” snapped Hamilton impatiently.

“Come on,” Laurens muttered in his ear, touching his elbow before Hamilton could jerk at Knox’s sleeve.

He pulled him away despite his protests, leading him into a relatively secluded corner. Irritated, Hamilton brushed Laurens off. _“What?”_

“Over there,” Laurens jerked his head.

Hamilton traced Laurens’ gaze then returned, still looking blank.

“That’s Professor von Steuben,” Laurens told him. “Head of the Languages Department. I had him for German last year.”

Hamilton nodded slowly. “Okaaay,” he said. “So?”

 _“So…”_ Laurens drew out, tilting his head significantly. “You see those two guys with him?”

“Yeah. Will North and Ben Walker,” Hamilton confirmed.

“You know them?”

Hamilton nodded again. “Sure,” he replied, taken aback at Laurens’ surprise. “Ben was my transition mentor when I first got here, and Will was Events Manager at LGBTQ. I still email Ben from time to time.”

“Ok, well,” said Laurens, speaking quietly and feeling strangely embarrassed about it. “Adams and Knox seem to think that they’re Steuben’s…you know…” He trailed out, feeling flustered and hot around his face under the intensity of Hamilton’s stare. “Toy boys,” he finished lamely.

At once Hamilton let out a squawk of laughter, so loud Laurens had to shush him, looking nervously over his shoulder for anyone who might have noticed.

“Honestly John,” Hamilton gasped, once he had regained his breath. “Sometimes you sound just like a PTA mom.”

“Shut up,” said Laurens, face hot. “It’s _weird._ He’s head of the department, and they’re _students.”_

“Grad-students,” corrected Hamilton. “And so what? They’re adults. They’re responsible. Well, Will is anyway. I kind of got the vibe from Ben that he was always one nervous breakdown away from disaster. I can’t believe he’s got a _sugar daddy_ now, _wow_ , and I thought he was joking at the time. It’s nice that they found each other. What’s that Unwell Metal Orchestra song you like? _Multiiiii-loveeee…_ ”

“Alexander,” Laurens cut across him firmly. “It’s weird. And…inappropriate.”

Hamilton’s eyes narrowed into flints as he stared challengingly at Laurens. “Why?” he demanded. “Because he’s over fifty? Because there are two of them? Christ, John. Sometimes you’re so fucking straight.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” asked Laurens, staggered. “Just because I don’t approve of some old perve flashing around a couple of twinks on his arm…like fuckin’…Lil Wayne…”

“Lil Wayne, really,” Hamilton deadpanned. “You’re going to bring fucking Weezy into this.”

 “If they were girls you’d be saying the same thing.”

“Seriously Laurens,” said Hamilton warningly. “If you don’t watch it, we’re going to fall out in a sec.”

Laurens was just about to foolishly retort when a movement from the entrance caught his eye. He faltered, mouth suddenly dry, pent up heat flooding from his face until it was starkly pale. Confused, Hamilton frowned, glancing over to where Laurens was staring transfixed. His mouth fell into a tiny ‘o”.

“Ah,” he said.

Laurens worked his mouth to force out a reply. “Yeah,” he managed finally, tongue feeling strangely too big for it. “My father’s here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay :( I have been having Insecurities recently and they are very unproductive
> 
> For reference, there are about 10 chapters left - I'm going back to uni soon so gonna try and step it up to 2 chapters a week consistently before my workload kicks in


	20. It Is What It Is - Blood Orange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> time will tell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, have a super long chapter to make up for it

“Sir,” Laurens squeezed through the gap between the suits blocking his father, heart drumming too hard in his ears to register who they were.

Henry Laurens turned abruptly, grey eyes automatically sharp as he scanned for the source of the sound. His face relaxed upon seeing that it was Laurens.

“Son,” he said curtly, shaking the proffered hand. “Finally come to greet me, I see. Why did you not answer my text?”

“What text?” asked Laurens immediately, insides seizing with cold.

“I sent you a text,” Henry replied impatiently. “Telling you my estimated arrival time, and asking whether you might meet me at the main gate.”

Confused, Laurens fumbled with his phone. There was no message. He turned on his data, heart sinking as the little blue bubble appeared on the screen.

“I didn’t see it,” he said, words tripping a little in his guilt. “I’m really sorry, my data was off, I didn’t mean-”

“No matter, no matter,” Henry waved dismissively. “It would have been nice to have walked in together, but I’m not so decrepit yet as to lose my way. How long have you been here?”

“Not long,” answered Laurens instantly, searching the room for where he had left Hamilton. “Alexander and I got here less than half an hour ago. There he is,” he waved above the heads of the people standing in front of him. Hamilton, who was watching nervously from his spot next to Knox, gave a little wave back.

“Ah of course,” murmured Henry, gaze fixed on Hamilton although it was impossible to decipher his tone. “I’ll be sure to make our re-acquaintance at some point, I’m sure that we have a lot to catch up on. Is your friend Lafayette here? No? Pity, I enjoyed his visit over spring break. Very amusing young man. Talkative. How have you been?” he asked, attention switching so sharply to Laurens he almost dropped his drink. “You haven’t cut your hair.”

“I,” Laurens’ fingers jumped to the long curls tumbling over his shoulders. “I meant to.”

“I thought you were going to before tonight,” Henry lowered his voice, glancing behind him as if wary of being challenged for sedition. “You told me that you would. You only barely got invited to this as a last-minute favour to me, Jack. How do you think it looks if you turn up looking like you smell of goddamn patchouli?”

Laurens opened his mouth, found that nothing came out. He tried again. “I’m sorry,” he managed at last. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“An awful lot seems to slip your mind these days,” Henry said cuttingly. “Oh well, nothing we can do about it now. You had better get it sorted before summer internships start.”

Laurens said nothing. Henry sipped at his drink, looking irritable and angry at himself, and at Laurens for making him irritable and angry. After a few heated seconds he breathed out sharply through his nose.

“It seems a long time since Christmas already,” he said, turning back to Laurens. “Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

“Um, well,” Laurens recovered. “I’ve been busy. But yeah, it’s been good. Lots going on. I have a gig tomorrow,” he added. “A really cool collective hired me to do a set for their event. So ya, that should be good.”

Henry made an idle humming noise as he accepted a flute from a passing waiter. “That sounds fun,” he said. “Glad to hear you’re keeping up with your hobbies, and out of trouble. I know you said that you don’t have exams this term, but you can use the time to study anyway, get ahead on the next syllabus. It’s a gift you’ve been given, really. You’d do well to make the most of it.”

“I know, I know,” said Laurens hastily. “It’s just an occasional thing. Ya know. Might as well make some money while you’re out. Plus it looks good to have a creative, entrepreneurial interest on the CV. Something a little different from working at a Pizza Hut, ya know.”

Henry smiled amusedly. “Of course,” he said. “Although I do hope you’ll never have to work in a _Pizza Hut,_ Jacky _._ No, there’s no harm in it so long as you prioritise. I hope it goes well. Send me a video.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Laurens gratefully. “I will, sir. I hope so too.”

“Hello,” said Hamilton, squeezing through the crowd to appear at Laurens’ elbow.

Laurens jerked as if from an electric shock to see Hamilton there where once he had not. Far from looking surprised however, Henry merely extended his hand as if he had already been halfway to doing so.

“Alexander,” he said levelly. “It’s good to see you again. I’ve heard your name crop up so often since our last meeting it barely feels as long ago as it was.”

“Haha, yeah,” Hamilton suppressed a smirk, eyes flitting to Laurens. “A lot has er…happened since then.”

Laurens glared at him.

“I’m glad you seem to have taken our last conversation to heart,” Henry said sternly. “You boys have enough on your plates without getting dragged down by political nonsense.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say I’ve put it to bed entirely,” replied Hamilton smoothly, oblivious to Laurens’ pleading gesture. “More of a change of tac.”

One of Henry’s eyebrows rose above the steely edge of his glasses.  “Really,” he said. “How so?”

Hamilton shrugged. “Just figured there are more ways to make a difference than by yelling and stamping your feet,” he replied. “Just because I’ve put the protests aside for the time being doesn’t mean this is the end. I’m working smarter.”

“Well that sounds…very canny,” said Henry carefully, with an anxious glance at Laurens, currently looking with animated interest at the floral decoration. “And sensible. Anything I can help with?”

“Not unless you know anything potentially embarrassing about a few very specific members of the New York Police Department,” replied Hamilton pleasantly.

Laurens stared at him. Henry appeared to think for a while before shaking his head. “Afraid not,” he answered smoothly. “I don’t spend nearly as much time in New York as I’d like to, and I’m not on close terms with any of the officials.” He took a long sip of his glass, lowering it pensively. “Have you tried Horatio Gates?”

Hamilton blinked, taken aback at receiving a genuine response to what he had intended to be purely inflammatory. “Gates?” he repeated. “That old du…sorry, man, with the glasses? I just met him tonight. Why?”

Henry’s shoulders rose and fell. “Just an idea,” he replied. “He has a few friends in the department, in fact has enjoyed a presumably very fruitful relationship with it for some time. And there’s also the magistrate, Mr Richard Woodhull, I don’t know whether you-?”

“Ah, yes,” Hamilton cut him off with a nod. “I’m familiar. Thank you, I’ll chase that up.”

Laurens’ brow furrowed deeper. Oblivious, Henry inclined his head. “I’ll let you know if anyone else comes to mind,” he said. “I’m afraid we’re somewhat isolated down South. I can see why Jack was drawn to the city.”

“I like the country,” Laurens muttered.

“But you’ve outgrown it,” Henry finished for him. “No, it was good for you to come here, make your own mark, etcetera. Get to know the somebodies. I’m sure Alexander agrees.”

“New York is the place to be for networking,” Hamilton agreed, glancing hopefully at Laurens. “Although, I’d like to visit South Carolina too, one day. I’ve not been to any other state.”

“You should have come to us over break,” said Henry, turning to Laurens. “Why didn’t you invite him, Jack? He would have been more than welcome.”

“Well, I,” Laurens blustered, face pale at the prospect. “I…didn’t…it-”

“Slipped your mind, I suppose,” said Henry tiredly.

“Maybe next year?” Hamilton offered, although he was looking at Laurens.

Laurens opened his mouth in the hope that something positive would fall out of it. He was saved however, by Henry patting him on the arm.

“I had better say hello to the Washingtons,” he said. “I’ll see you boys later.”

Hamilton raised his hand in parting, waiting until he was safely out of earshot and engaged with Washington before turning back to Laurens.

“Thanks a lot for the enthusiasm there,” he said dejectedly. “If you don’t want me to come, just say. I’m a big boy, I can take it.”

“I do want you to come,” Laurens returned challengingly, although the blatancy of the lie made his words feeble. “Anyway, what the hell? You’re looking for dirt on the NYPD? And Woodhull - that’s Ben’s friend, right?”

“Oh sorry,” Hamilton cringed, sipping innocently at his drink. “Did I not mention it?”

 _“No you fucking did not mention it!_ What are you up to?”

“Look,” said Hamilton smoothly, almost as smoothly as Henry Laurens, and wasn’t _that_ a real kick in the gut. “This is why I didn’t tell you. I knew you’d react like this.”

“React like – how long has his been going on?!”

“How long has _what_ been going on,” said Hamilton impatiently. “I’m not having an _affair_ , Jesus. Anyway, it’s not _for_ you, it’s for Jamal Curtis’ trial, so if you want to step outside your own periphery for just _one second-”_

“Oh really?” Laurens folded his arms challengingly over his chest. _“Which_ specific members of the NYPD?”

Hamilton hesitated, insides buckling under the terrible fire of Laurens’ gaze. His uncertainty was all the answer Laurens needed however, and he knew he had lost.

“Fine,” he retorted harshly. “I may have started with the cops who held you down.”

_“ALEX, WHAT THE-!”_

“Oh, be quiet,” Hamilton snapped. “You’re being a baby. Quit making a scene.”

Laurens was about to tell Alexander quite what he thought of that statement, when he was fortunately drowned out by the voice of the usher, stepping out to inform them that dinner was served.

“Oh good,” said Hamilton brightly, as if the conversation had never happened. “I’m starving.” Catching sight of Laurens’ still furious expression, his own softened. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I just thought it would be more efficient if I handled things by myself. And I’m sorry I called you a baby. You’re not, obviously.”

Laurens scoffed. Glancing around to make sure no one was looking, Alexander briefly entwined his fingers with his own. “Let’s talk about this later, okay?”

He gazed up at him, a small, sad smile tugging at his mouth, and Laurens felt his resistance melt. He nodded curtly, allowing Hamilton to take the lead into the dining hall.

*

“Do you wanna try it again in E-Minor?” suggested Tallmadge, looking at André’s guitar.

André played obligingly. Tallmadge listened for a few seconds before shaking his head. “Nah, that’s not right either.”

“Maybe Drop D?”

“No,” Tallmadge thought hard. “Try capo on the first fret.”

André obeyed. The chord rang out, instantly familiar to what he had in his mind, and Tallmadge nodded approvingly. “That’s it,” he said. “Ok, let’s go from the top.”

“Can we take a second?” asked André, flexing his fingers with a pained expression. “My hands are getting a little stiff.”

Tallmadge restrained himself from saying they’d get stiff less quickly if he practiced more, but only barely.

André went over to the fridge. Tallmadge watched approvingly as he took out two beers, impressed with André that he felt comfortable enough to make himself at home with Tallmadge’s stuff, and with himself for not minding. André cracked open the can and took a long gulp, tilting his head back to reveal the long column of his throat.

“John at Alex’s?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Tallmadge shook his head. “They’re both at some fancy thing,” he replied indifferently. “I wasn’t really listening.”

“Sounds prestigious,” said André. “Did they go as a couple?”

“Uh, I don’t think so,” replied Tallmadge, trying to remember what, if anything, Laurens had said on the subject. “Or maybe, but not officially, if you get me.”

André nodded like he did. He took another thoughtful swig. “Good call on the school’s part, they probably look great.”

“Eh,” said Tallmadge, who didn’t like to compliment Hamilton too much and thought Laurens looked stupid in suits.

“They look really good together. I mean, they make a really nice couple.”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Tallmadge grudgingly. “When they’re not behaving like children.”

“They fight?” André looked surprised.

Tallmadge shrugged. “Pretty much inevitable when you have two people like that.”

“But they’re so _nice.”_

Tallmadge grunted. “They can both be pretty nasty when they want to be,” he said. “Alex in particular can be a catty little bitch. But Laurens is like…next level passive aggression.”

“Wonder where he learnt that one from,” André pointed out.

Tallmadge made a gesture that read _touché._ Looking slightly perturbed and very deep in thought, André sat back down on the sofa. He was silent for a few moments, chewing his lip.

“John gonna be around a lot this week do you think?” he threw out casually after a while. “Or like, how often does he go to Alex’s or-”

“Dude,” Tallmadge cut him off, feeling a little impatient. “I’m really not that clued in on all aspects of their relationship. If you like, I can write you up a schedule.”

The beautifully chiselled hollows of André’s cheeks flushed crimson. He thought about saying sorry then thought better of it, worrying that would somehow come across as even more weird, and then wondered what he had to apologise for anyway.

Tallmadge adjusted the tuning of his guitar, apparently oblivious, or at least indifferent, to André’s embarrassment. “Pass me the tab?”

André leaned across the coffee table, searching through the strewn pages of sheet music. He frowned, uncovering something that looked like a report. “What’s this?”

Tallmadge glanced up. “Oh, just the research thing Hamilton made us do for the department Washington’s tryna set up,” he replied dismissively.

“‘Issues of discrimination against LGBTQ students’,” André read out. “I guess he randomly assigned these, huh?”

“Uh, well he said everyone gets the field they’re best suited for,” Tallmadge replied. “But then Laurens got stuck with dietary, even though he can’t make anything unless it’s fuckin’ pan seared scallops with a side of roasted truffle soufflé…”

He trailed out, realising André was looking at him in surprise. “What?”

“Nothing,” André said quickly. “I just uh…I didn’t realise you were part of the acronym.”

“Oh,” said Tallmadge. “Well, yeah.”

“Which letter? I mean, if you don’t mind-”

“Q I guess,” Tallmadge shrugged. “Edging on B. I have some stuff to sort out.”

“No, yeah, sure, obviously,” said André. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“It’s not a secret,” said Tallmadge, amused. “Or a sentence.”

“No, yeah, obviously.”

The sound of the key in the lock provided much needed distraction, and André found himself overwhelmingly relieved at the appearance of Lafayette in the doorway.

“John,” he exclaimed, looking startled. “Do you live here now?”

André laughed. “Sure does look that way.”

“Make him pay rent,” Lafayette told Tallmadge. “Or at least contribute to beer and toilet paper.”

“You do know _you_ don’t live here.”

“I have a key,” said Lafayette. “For emergencies. And I am out of garlic salt. Does Laurens have any?”

Tallmadge gestured in the direction of the kitchen. “Check his side.”

Lafayette thanked him, heading for Laurens’ cupboards and instantly beginning to rummage around.

“Laurens and Hamilton are at the trustee dinner,” he informed André over his shoulder. “It’s fine that I was not invited. Of course, I was asked to come earlier on in the year, after I made my very generous anonymous donation-”

“Why would they ask you to come, if it was an anonymous donation?” asked André amusedly as Tallmadge shook his head.

“But I politely declined, unwilling to accept any invitation that did not come from George himself,” Lafayette ignored him. “An invitation that…incidentally never came. But that is quite alright. He wanted to showboat Alexander, and was worried I might steal the limelight. I understand. It’s fine.”

“The way you’re going on about it kind of suggests to me like it’s not fine,” Tallmadge pointed out.

“It’s fine,” Lafayette insisted.

He emerged from the kitchen, garlic salt in hand along with several other foodstuffs André had never heard of.

“Anyway,” he said. “I have developments on our project, John. I was waiting to update you in person.”

“Do you wanna maybe leave it for later,” said André with a nervous glance at Ben.

“I don’t care what you do,” said Tallmadge boredly.

“He doesn’t care,” Lafayette agreed. “Through my subtle and secret methods, I have managed to uncover at least four of the individuals on the chatroom, although there are still a couple that remain a mystery. As far as I have gathered, there seems to be one leader who created it. I believe that he may be using the alt-right and people with a grievance against Alexander to his own dastardly ends.”

“It’s gotta be Jefferson,” said André with authority.

Lafayette wrinkled his nose. “Does it?” he said unhappily. “I don’t think it does.”

“You’re just saying that because you don’t want to have to beat up your new best friend,” said Tallmadge.

“Adrienne is my best friend,” Lafayette snapped. “But yes. I will admit that I enjoy his company, and I do not like to think that he is the supervillain behind all of this.”

“He does sound evil.”

“Don’t be racist.”

“To the _South?”_

 “Look,” said Lafayette impatiently. “I do not think it is Thomas. But if it is, I will happily be first in line to tear his balls off with my teeth.”

“Visceral.”

Lafayette’s phone buzzed. He slipped it out his pocket, sucking in a sharp breath. “Oh no.”

“What is it?” asked André.

Lafayette showed him the screen, stacked with several new messages from both Hamilton and Laurens. “Things are not going well.”

*

Things were not going well.

The conversation hadn’t wavered through three courses and just as many rounds of drinks, with Hamilton carrying it almost single-handedly. He weaved and bobbed like the candles on the table, ever joyful and exuberant, taking pleasure in the company’s taking pleasure in him – without, Laurens thought, realising how ridiculous he looked. Flirting, being charming. Unaware that if it weren’t for a couple of juggling balls and a funny hat, he might as well have been a dancing monkey.

“Of course I speak Spanish,” Hamilton grinned, leaning in a little too close to Dr de Berdt. “Not as well as my French, or even my Dutch, but enough to get by when I visit relatives from other islands. But I learned mostly from reading around colonial missionary history, so it’s not exactly dinner party conversation.”

“Go on then,” Dr de Berdt encouraged him. “We’ll excuse you if you neglect the formal.”

_“Y porque toda la gente que huir podía se encerraba en los montes y subía a las sierras huyendo de hombres tan inhumanos, tan sin piedad y tan feroces bestias…”_

“Why would you ever need to say that?” asked Laurens irritably.

Hamilton looked at him surprised, as if he had forgotten he had been there the whole time. He laughed away the challenge, patting Laurens’ hand instead.

“Laurens actually speaks it much better than me,” he admitted. “You should ask him instead.”

“Ooh, a contest!” declared Knox good-naturedly. “Perhaps in translation?”

Laurens smiled thinly. “I’m good, thanks.”

_JL: my dead mothers language is not for ur goddamn entertainment._

Hamilton gave Laurens a chastising, disappointed look. As if to say, “you’re not being a good sport”.

_AH: He’s being moody and horrible on purpose_

_I get that its to give him some sense of control of the situation but come on. hes like a child throwing food when he’s bored_

“Professor Bartow and I read your paper on the economic order of language,” Dr de Berdt continued. “Truly fantastic work. Did you ever consider studying etymology, or semantics? You’d be a wonderful addition to the Philosophy department.”

Hamilton shook his head. “As much as I like conceptual theory, it’s really only of interest to me if it’s useful practically,” he explained. “Whoops, sorry. That was tactless. What I mean is, I don’t appreciate knowledge for knowledge’s sake, but only what it can actually do for real people. The economic order of language, for example, has been used obviously to de-class immigrants who don’t speak Standard English. But more historically, it’s an imperialist tool which has led to the simultaneous creation and degradation of patois and creoles, which survives to this day in African-American argot and speech patterns. Or, y’know. ‘People who speak ghetto’.”

“Must we always bring the conversation back to race, Hamilton?” Adams asked tersely. “This is what I meant when I said your papers were starting to sound repetitive.”

“Oh am, I starting to sound repetitive?” Hamilton raised his voice. “You know what’s starting to _feel_ a little repetitive? Me having to _keep saying_ it. Again and again. _Because nothing ever changes.”_

“Perhaps you should try something different,” supplied Gates, taking a prim sip from his glass.

“What, like shutting up?” said Hamilton challengingly. “Yeah, you’d all like that a lot, wouldn’t you.”

“Alex,” Laurens muttered under his breath.

“No, hold on a sec,” Hamilton continued, words a little slurred with what was maybe his sixth glass of not-quite-champagne. “Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on here. You’re all perfectly happy to sit down and have an academic discussion about racial theory among fellow intellectuals and whatnot. But when it actually comes to how it affects the day-to-day running of this school suddenly everyone goes quiet.”

“I’m sure the administration is working to ensure all issues are resolved fairly,” said Knox with an anxious look at Gates.

Gates folded his napkin and dabbed carefully at the corner of his mouth. “Without seeking to advocate violence, of course.”

“So being a Nazi doesn’t count as advocating violence?”

“Oh here we go,” Adams rolled his eyes condescendingly. “Once again, resorting to sensationalism.”

_JL: hes turning into a cartoon, trying to outdo himself. he doesnt realise theyre baiting him_

“In any case,” resumed Gates. “Violence has only ever been an impediment to the advancement of civilisation.”

Hamilton snorted. “Are you kidding?” he demanded. “Civilisation – whatever that means – _is_ violence. The very kind of liberal progress I assume you’re talking about depends on a series of short, bloody revolutions. Any other kind of thinking is naïve.”

 “Mr Laurens,” Dr de Berdt switched to him suddenly. “What is your opinion, in light of your recent ordeal?”

“Uh…” Laurens looked across the table at his father, who had broken off his conversation to watch theirs. “I think…the only true way of fixing faults in society is through diplomacy and mutual respect.”

Hamilton shook his head disbelievingly at him.

_AH: U should hear him talk to his father if no one else_

_Yes Sir No Sir 3 Bags Full Sir_

“I’m not going to be diplomatic with people who are trying to kill me,” said Hamilton. “That’s not the attitude the police had when they slammed you to the ground.”

“I think both Mr Laurens, and yourself, can admit you might have behaved rashly in that situation,” spoke Gates severely.

“Granted, by why is it when a white man acts rashly he’s pardoned but when a black man does he is hospitalised, and/or charged? Unless you’re suggesting Laurens and Jamal deserved what they got?”

“Now see here young man-”

It was happening again, the sickness. Laurens watched unseeingly as the debate erupted in front of him, bubbling like hot lava out of his control. All words, however, from “The country is at war with itself” to “My father marched at Selma!” were drowned out by that thin, high buzzing, almost as though he had clapped his hands over his ears and hummed loudly himself, so as not to hear them. Hamilton was gesticulating fiercely, mouth moving at a hundred miles an hour. Across the table, Laurens could feel Henry’s eyes on him, searing the back of his neck. His skin felt tight; he wiped his forehead and came away with sweat, the stifling heat contrasting with the sudden cold of his stomach.

He rose gingerly to his feet, putting a hand out on his chair to steady himself. At once all eyes turned to him; he couldn’t meet any of them but directed his explanation at the floor.

“I feel a little unwell,” tumbled out of his mouth. “I think I’ll get some fresh air.”

He pushed his chair away, leaving the dining hall without looking back for anyone’s reactions. Fortunately, most of the other tables were preoccupied, and his departure went relatively undisturbed. He made a beeline for the exit, keeping the promise of the outdoors in sight, not stopping until he had stumbled onto the balcony.

The night air was cool. Laurens breathed in gulps like he was emerging from water. He put both hands on the balcony, dropping his head between them, and waited for the blood to rush back into his head.

He had barely been out two minutes before he heard the door open and click shut behind him. He did not lift his head, but kept it bowed, out of hope that by doing so the phantom would disappear.

No such luck. “What’s wrong?” Hamilton demanded. “Why did you abandon me?”

Laurens wanted to laugh bitterly at the wording. “Why did you have to bring that up?”

Confusion, only slightly intensified by alcohol, flit across Hamilton’s face. “What?”

“The police. The protest. My father’s _here,_ Alexander.”

Hamilton’s eyes widened, mouth falling open a little as comprehension and guilt rushed into his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said for the second time that night, although this time he sounded small. “But I was…you weren’t sticking up for yourself!”

“There wouldn’t _be_ anything to stick up to if you hadn’t forced the conversation that way,” snapped Laurens. His hands were shaking on the balcony, his whole body was. He clenched them into fists, stuffed them into the pockets of his suit.

“Well, I’m sorry!” said Hamilton again, voice climbing higher in pitch. “But it needs to be talked about, and you won’t ever!”

“Why does it?” Laurens challenged. “So you can have something to rise up against? Be the centre of attention? I _don’t_ want to be another addition to the Hamilton show.”

Hamilton’s face screwed up with deepest hurt. Laurens felt it as surely as if it has been his and regret twisted his heart painfully. But he wouldn’t let it show on his face, and turned it away in indifference.

Hamilton blinked hard. He tilted his chin up at the stars above his head, letting out a shaky breath. “Okay,” he said, trying to be understanding. “Okay, we don’t have to talk about it. It doesn’t need to be mentioned ever again. Not until you want, or you’re ready.”

Laurens huffed frustratedly, running a hand through his hair. Somehow, Hamilton’s slow, deliberate empathy was even worse than his obliviousness. “Just…leave me alone, for a second,” he exhaled at last. “I’m alright, I just need to be alone.”

Hamilton frowned, stunned and non-comprehending. “Leave you?” he repeated, like the words were foreign to his tongue. “But no…I…I can’t…I don’t want to leave you, I want to help you. I want to be here for you.”

“Why do you?” the words fell out Laurens’ mouth before he could stop them. “Why do you, Alexander?”

“Because I-” Hamilton stopped, catching his words. A glimmer of uncertainty came into his face and he looked at Laurens, like this was a test. And in that moment, Laurens knew 1) what he was going to say and 2) that he had never in his life wanted to hear those words less than at that moment.

“Don’t say it,” he cut Hamilton off, his voice a pathetic plea. “Please…if you say it now, I won’t be able to stand it.”

To have those words ever tainted, ever touched with this cold, burning nausea – with fake laughter and meaningless chatter, and police sirens wailing in the background, someone’s screams, the push of a crowd, his father’s eyes boring at him from across the table. And to know that however much Hamilton might think he meant it he really only meant to smooth his distress, like he had attempted to smooth his anger before.

The hurt grew more profound on Hamilton’s face. He swallowed, throat moving mechanically, a controlled movement. Tears sprang into his eyes, he rubbed at them with his hand. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, I won’t say it.”

He squeezed Laurens’ hand once, forcing a smile, and turned to go back inside. It was only when he was gone, and his shadow had moved from the door, that Laurens noticed there was someone else coming out onto the balcony.

His initial feeling was anger, surging through him with such violence he almost went back in. But then the figure leaned out of the darkness, and he saw that it was the tall, fat silhouette of Professor von Steuben.

“Good evening,” the Professor closed the door behind him, the blitheness of the greeting almost as indecent, Laurens thought, as his aged, portly body.

Laurens grunted in response. Steuben walked up to the edge, stopping only a few feet from Laurens. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a beautiful silver lighter. “Do you smoke?”

Laurens clenched his jaw. Thought about lying and saying no. Before he had time to make his decision, the professor had already lit a cigarette and passed it to him.

“Ah,” said Steuben, taking a long drag. “That’s better.” He blew a cloud of smoke into the darkness, fixing a beady eye on Laurens. “I think you are Henry Laurens’ boy, yes?”

Laurens inclined his head curtly. The professor didn’t say anything else, but nodded, and continued to smoke his cigarette in pensive silence. After a moment, Laurens lifted his own to his lips. Breathed in, exhaled.

It took a while for him to realise he was crying, by which time, with a last conciliatory pat on the back, Steuben had already left him alone.


	21. Oblivion - Grimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another walk about, after dark it's my point of view. If someone could break your neck coming up behind you always coming and you'd never have a clue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok look disclaimer, i hate Grimes for her awful politics and for defending a literal hell-demon but the song's a banger and the lyrics work so separate the artist from the product i guess :(

_One year ago_

“Hey, look who it is!” Nik Fish stumbled, nearly toppling out of his chair in his haste to rise in greeting. “Alex! Over here man, I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”

“Are you kidding?” Hamilton clasped the outstretched hand warmly, pulling Nik into a hug. “Open bar and karaoke? Birthday or not, I’d miss primaries before this.”

“No you wouldn’t,” said Nik amusedly.

“No I wouldn’t,” Hamilton admitted.

“Who’ve you got with you?” Nik gestured at Lafayette and Laurens, stood awkwardly behind Hamilton and trying not to look too conscious of having just entered a space where they hardly knew anyone.

“You’ve met Lafayette,” Hamilton clapped them both on the shoulders. “Who will most _definitely_ be performing at some stage in the evening. And this here’s John Laurens. He’s an actual musician, aren’t you Laurens?”

“Yeah?” Nik looked politely interested at Laurens after shaking hands with Lafayette. “What kind of thing?”

“Uh well, it’s more DJing mostly…” Laurens trailed out, momentarily distracted by the heat of Alexander’s hand and aware that Nik had foregone his tether on the conversation in favour of putting Hamilton in a headlock.

“Damn, it’s good to see you,” he said heartily, releasing him and slapping him on the arm. “Come on, get a drink, join us-”

“Oh, is that James?” said Lafayette brightly, spotting McHenry waving at them from the table. “I shall say hello.”

He scurried off, leaving Laurens to weave his way nervously after Hamilton and Nik.

“Are you sure it’s ok I’m here?” Laurens muttered to Hamilton in an undertone as he nudged him through the bar.

“What?” frowned Hamilton, bemused by the question. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know anyone,” Laurens confessed, eyes flickering around the dimly lit space of the bar. “I feel like I’m crashing your friend’s party.”

“You’re not crashing,” Hamilton told him. “You’re here with me.”

A grin nudged Laurens’ face, recognising this as the first time Hamilton had referred to the two of them as separate from the others. “Ya?”

“Yeah,” Hamilton shrugged simply. “That’s what I’ll say if anyone asks. And if anyone asks, you just say ‘I’m here with Hamilton’.”

“Okay,” said Laurens, grin growing broader as he warmed to the theme. “Cool. Awesome.”

Hamilton nodded at him, as if something had been decided. “You want a drink?” he asked, jerking his thumb and waving Laurens towards the bar. “Can’t believe I’m about to get a mojito for the first time since freshers. Don’t take this as a regular thing, by the way. I’m sure Herc already told you I’m broke as fuck, it’s just ‘cos there’s an open bar, as aforementioned. Once the tab’s run out you’re on your own. Not to blow my own trumpet, but I get kind of a lot of drinks bought for me, though. If I get lucky tonight maybe I can swing you a few. Then again, there are a lot of girls here – I might have to put all my energies into buying for them. Shit, did that come across as old fashioned? I didn’t mean it to. They can buy me a drink if they want, I’m not picky and as I mentioned, broke as fuck. It’s just easier for them if I approach first, historically speaking. Fuck, maybe I’m doing this all wrong. Maybe I need to get more woke, hit on more guys. It’s weird, I’m so much more conscious of it when I’m out, compared to like I am with women. I thought it was down to some weird competition against myself but maybe it’s deeper than that. Or maybe I’m just overthinking-”

“Can I get a Long Island ice tea,” Laurens told the bartender, currently watching boredly as Hamilton work himself into a crisis. “And he’ll have a mojito.”

Yanked out of his reverie, Hamilton blinked at Laurens in surprise. “How did you know?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“I listen to you when you monologue,” Laurens explained.

Hamilton frowned sceptically. “Seriously?” he asked, voice heavy with doubt. _“I_ don’t even listen to me.”

Laurens laughed. “Well, you should,” he said. “You say a lot of interesting things.”

“Really?” said Hamilton, still looking like this was fake news. “Huh. Well. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Laurens said amused, handing Hamilton his drink.

Hamilton grinned, walking with Laurens back to the main area where his friends were sitting. Laurens felt a brief flicker of anxiety that Hamilton was going to immediately leap into conversation and subsequently leave him to the wolves, but to his surprise Hamilton leant back in his chair, sipping his mojito thoughtfully and tilting his head conspiratorially towards Laurens.

“Do you know everyone’s names?” he asked in an undertone. “There’s Robert Troup over there, I’ve known him since day. And that’s Gouverneur Morris, one of the few people on student council who can stand being in a room with me…Sarah Livingston’s just there-”

“Hamilton,” Laurens broke him off. “You don’t have to do this. Talk to your friends, I’ll be alright.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Hamilton waved dismissively. “I know so few people compared to you and Lafayette. I’m actually enjoying being the connected one for once.”

“You’re being modest,” said Laurens. “Everybody knows you.”

Hamilton looked distrustful. “In certain nerd circles, maybe. I doubt I was a big name in your neck of the woods.”

“Are you kidding? I heard about you through Pickering way before Lafayette asked me to ‘join the revolution’.”

“For real?” Hamilton raised an eyebrow, pleased despite himself. “What did you hear?”

“Uh,” Laurens took a sip of his drink to postpone answering. “Mostly about how smart you are.”

Hamilton laughed. “You mean that I’m an annoying little wise-ass.”

“Well, ya,” Laurens admitted. “Those words may have come up.”

Hamilton smiled, and Laurens took another sip to hide the blush colouring his cheeks.

“I hadn’t heard of you,” Hamilton told him. “Not till Lafayette came round one night raving about some guy he’d just met and from then on he and Herc couldn’t shut up.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Laurens quickly. “I wasn’t anyone important.”

“Hey,” Hamilton smacked his arm reprovingly. “Love yourself.”

Laurens shrugged. “It’s true.”

“It’s not,” argued Hamilton stoutly. He hesitated, looking distinctly at odds with himself before adding: “Listen…I know I haven’t exactly been the nicest to you. I’m sorry if I’ve been rude. I’m not the best with new people, and I guess I kind of saw you as a threat.”

“Oh, no, you don’t…” Laurens cleared his throat, taken aback by the apology and unsure how to handle it. “I didn’t notice.”

Hamilton’s mouth twisted wryly. “You’re very polite,” he said. “Must be that good Southern upbringing. What a nice, chivalrous boy you are.”

Laurens smiled hollowly. “I’m not that nice.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Hamilton conceded. “I sense that.” He looked at Laurens oddly, circling the rim of his glass with one finger. “I like you, though.”

Laurens laughed, face warming. “Thanks.”

Hamilton raised his mojito. “Welcome to the revolution.”

They clinked glasses.

“Hey, Alex!” Fish hollered at him from across the table. “Are you getting on that stage, or what?”

“Uh, no?” Hamilton laughed. “You’re gonna have to get me a lot more drunk for that.”

“Aw, come on!” Fish pouted. “It’s my birthday. Plus, I already told everyone what a star performer you are. I invited you as the headliner!”

“That was presumptuous of you,” said Hamilton.

Nik’s brow furrowed melancholically but he shrugged and turned away. Hamilton sunk back in his chair, eyes flickering towards the stage. The corner of his mouth twitched as he watched people of varying ability clamber on and take the mic. Beneath the table his leg was shaking. Laurens didn’t think it would take all that much alcohol to persuade him. He wondered if he had restrained himself for Laurens’ sake – trying to make amends for his initial rudeness. The thought was an unwelcome one and, not for the first time that evening (or in fact, since they’d met), Laurens found himself feeling guilty about something in connection with Alexander Hamilton.

“Oh, what fresh hell is this,” Hamilton breathed out, causing Laurens to come back to himself.

The stage had been seized by a young man with a shaved head, belting Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Red White and Blue with enough force to make the coasters shake. A few tables away his friends were cheering obnoxiously, almost, though not quite, drowning out the words with their enthusiasm. Hamilton stared at them, stony-faced. Laurens thought he could see a muscle jumping in his jaw.

And apparently, so did Nik.

“Nothing to follow, Hamilton?” he teased loudly. “Or are you gonna let them have this one?”

“Like fuck I am,” said Hamilton tersely, getting to his feet.

“Whoooo, go Alex!” Sarah Livingston punched the air, waving a bottle of tequila for punctuation. “Do Immigrant Song!”

“I’ve got one better,” Hamilton replied as he passed him. “Hand me that tequila.”

Sarah obliged. Hamilton took a long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before climbing onto the stage. Laurens watched, wide-eyed and mouth hanging half open as Hamilton took a moment to compose himself before flexing his fingers experimentally around the mic.

“You can turn that off,” he told the guy manning the karaoke booth. “I uh…would be really very surprised if you had this. Gonna have to do this boy acapella.”

“Mon dieu,” Laurens heard Lafayette groan as he dropped into Hamilton’s freshly vacated seat. “What the hell is he doing?”

“Ya’ll ready for this?” Hamilton waited for his friends to finish cheering, taking one last gulp of tequila before lifting the bottle precariously above his head. “Kay. Here goes.

 _All hail the Virgin Islands._ ,  
_Emeralds of the sea_ ,  
_Where beaches bright with coral sand_ ,  
_And trade winds bless our native land_ ,  
_All hail the Virgin Islands,_  
_Bathe in waters blue,_  
_We give our loyalty,_  
_Full to thee,_  
_And pledge allegiance forever true._

_God bless our Virgin Islands,_  
_Humbly now we pray,_  
_Where all mankind can join today_ ,  
_In friendly warmth of work and play,_  
_God bless our Virgin Islands,_  
_Beautiful and tall,_  
_Beneath a sunny sky,_  
_Hilltops high_ ,  
_Hold out a welcome for one and all._

And we never colonised _anybody!”_ Hamilton ended with exuberant triumph.

The table thundered as he hopped off the stage, face almost splitting with his grin as he allowed himself to be ploughed with drinks and praise. Laurens watched as if stunned, dumbly following the line of the bottle as Hamilton lifted it in a graceful arch, like some burning torch or flag of victory, and raised it to his mouth, tequila slipping from the bottom lip and running down his chin.

Lafayette, bored of watching people fawn over something he could have done rather better, turned to look at Laurens, frowning at the staggered expression on his face. “Are you alright?”

 “Yes,” said Laurens, voice breaking halfway through the syllable.

Lafayette gave him a look. “You do not sound it.”

“I’m fine,” Laurens forced out in a struggle to sound normal, a difficult feat when inside, his head was playing a rather different tune.

_Fucked, fucked, fucked, I’m fucked, fuck._

_I think I’m in love._

_Fuck._

_*_

_Present Day_

“Laurens?”

“Fucked, fucked, I’m fucked,” Laurens ran a hand distractedly through his hair, cringing when it stopped much sooner than he remembered. “Where the fuck is my laptop charger?”

“Describe,” ordered Lafayette, pressing a beer into his hand.

“Apple,” answered Laurens curtly.

Lafayette shook his head. “I haven’t seen it.” He tilted his head curiously, looking from Laurens’ laptop to the label on the beer. “Does this count as product placement? I don’t suppose you are getting paid enough for that.”

“It should be in a plastic cup,” replied Laurens. “But no one gives a shit what computer I use, it’s all about the platform.”

“Is it GarageBand?” asked Lafayette, craning his neck to get a look at the screen. “I bet it’s GarageBand.”

“It’s not fucking GarageBand,” Laurens snapped, disappearing below his deck in an attempt to disentangle the jumble of wires. “Fuck. _Fuck._ What the hell is wrong with me? How have I left this to the last minute?”

“Perhaps you have cut off your superpower,” suggested Lafayette, gesturing at the top of Laurens’ skull. “Like Sampson.”

The response was a muttered swear and the sound of something clattering. Lafayette decided not to belay the point. They had not yet talked about the night before: when Lafayette had walked into the bathroom on Laurens after the trustee dinner shaving the sides of his head with Tallmadge’s razor. His thick black curls littered the sink where they had been newly cropped, fallen soldiers in a retreating battle where only the top remained. Lafayette wasn’t sure if he looked like a very sensitive marine, or a very militaristic film major.

“Hey,” Angelica appeared at Lafayette’s side, flanked by Eliza, Tallmadge and Meade. “We’ve just seen Hercules. He’s just setting up.”

“Everything looks so cool,” Eliza breathed, scanning the crowded museum space where the usual exhibits had been replaced with productions of art and music. “I can’t believe this is the MoMath. I’ve never seen so many beautiful people in one place before.”

“Yeah, it’s…really something…” Meade nodded, trailing off as a striking girl with dreads walked by and quailing under the look Angelica gave him.

“There are some really well-known people here too,” Angelica observed, eyes stalking after someone who looked like they definitely could have been an Instagram model. “I didn’t realise Beth was so connected, she really is amazing.”

“And they will all be watching Laurens,” Lafayette added. “At his first non-profit! I wonder if any famously edgy people will want to talk to him after.”

“Is Grimes playing here?” asked Eliza. “I feel like Grimes should be here.”

“Grimes is white.”

“Has that _ever_ stopped Grimes?”

“You know what, I bet Elon Musk is somewhere. What if he tries to sign a deal with Laurens after the show, make him the new face of Tesla?”

“Tesla short-shorts, now equipped with a John Laurens soundtrack for all your TechnoBooty-blasting needs-”

“Look,” said Laurens tersely, appearing over the top of his deck. “I really appreciate that ya’ll have come to support me, and all. But I’d be remiss not to point out that _I need my fucking charger_ and _none of you are helping.”_

“What kind is it?”

“APPLE!”

“Ok, you shouldn’t shout that. That really is product placement.”

“Here,” Eliza reached into her bag, pulling out a cable. “Use mine.”

She held it out to him smoothly. Laurens accepted it with a grunt of thanks, irritated that it had come from her but feeling churlish about being so. He plugged it in, turning his face from the group so that they wouldn’t see his annoyance.

“Can someone call Alexander?” he barked.

“On it,” replied Lafayette, reaching for his phone.

He held his breath on the dial as Laurens continued to clatter round moodily, making more mess than there had been previously. The others looked questioningly at him; he waved them away, wordlessly telling them to enjoy themselves and leave him to handle it. By the time they had departed, looking none too unhappy to be doing so, Hamilton had picked up.

“Yo.”

“Hello,” Lafayette greeted him. “Are you on your way?”

“Uh…not exactly,” came the reply. Lafayette could hear people moving around in the background, the clink of cutlery in water and the sizzling of a pan. “I gotta stay a half hour, help clean up. I already told John I’d be late. He’s cool, right?”

“Ah…” Lafayette risked a glance at Laurens, currently standing with his arms folded over his chest, chin tilted in the direction of a jerk chicken stand. “He is a little tense. André hasn’t arrived yet, and he has managed to scare all our friends away with his irritability.”

“Give me that,” Laurens reached over the speakers, jerking the phone out of Lafayette’s hand. “Alexander?”

“Hey baby,” Hamilton’s voice, soft and amused through the receiver. “Gilbert says you’re being irritable.”

At once, Laurens felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders. A small smile crept unbidden into his face; he turned away to hide it, flipping his middle finger up at Lafayette. “A little, maybe. I’m stressed.”

“Don’t be stressed,” answered Hamilton instantly. “You’re amazing. You’re going to be amazing.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t need to. I do,” a muffled sound as Hamilton switched the phone to his other ear, clearly multi-tasking. “I can’t wait to see you. I’ve told everyone here about it.”

The smile broadened, warmth curling in the pit of Laurens’ stomach. His voice was more gentle when he spoke. “How was your shift?”

“Eh. Same old,” Hamilton replied, connection wavering slightly as he turned over his shoulder to yell instructions at someone. “Catering gigs are a piece of piss at this point, I’ve done so many. I didn’t even drop anything.”

“Proud of you.”

“That makes two of us,” returned Hamilton, pausing before adding quickly, “I mean that I’m proud of you, obviously. Not myself. I should have stopped dropping things a long time ago.”

“I got it,” Laurens assured him. “When can you get here?”

“Soon,” Hamilton promised him. “I just gotta clean up, then I’m outta here in thirty. Don’t play any of the good ones till then.”

Laurens laughed. “Okay.” He hesitated, weighing something up internally before coming to a decision. “Travel safe.”

“I will. _Good luck!”_

Hamilton hung up, and Laurens handed Lafayette back his phone.

“What?” he asked defensively when he was still staring at him.

“‘Travel safe’?” Lafayette repeated in disbelief.

“Yeah? So what?”

“I thought you had told him how you felt.”

“I did.”

“Oh, okay,” said Lafayette. “So it was a one-time thing. I seem to remember you telling me you were going to start being more honest.”

“Ya, and I seem to remember telling Hamilton ‘I love you’ and him singing Nina Simone at me,” Laurens retorted. “And _then_ trying to say it back because we were in the middle of a fight, and he had nothing else to say.”

The crease between Lafayette’s brow deepened. “That’s mean.”

Laurens shrugged. “It’s true.”

He bent over his laptop, fiddling with something on the screen. Lafayette chewed his lip thoughtfully, throwing his mind back to the messages he had received from both Laurens and Hamilton the previous night. They had not made for pleasant reading, not least because of the immense frustration he had felt at being made the chosen receptacle, when the actual targets had been sitting less than a foot away from each other.

“Alright,” said Laurens, straightening up and actually smiling properly for the first time all evening. “We’re good to go.”

*

Hamilton sighed, dropping his dishcloth onto the counter and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

“That’s gotta be it,” he said aloud to no one in particular. “Someone, tell me that’s it.”

He looked pleadingly at the waitress near him who pointed sadly at a fresh wave of silverware, cresting at the kitchen door. Hamilton dropped his head into his hands and groaned.

“I hate this job,” he muffled between his fingers. “Hate it, hate it, hate it.”

“Cheer up,” his colleague whacked him lightly with a napkin. “It’s not so bad.”

“To get treated like the Help for eight dollars an hour?” Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, it really is.”

“Someone’s son in there just patted me on the arm while I was pouring the coffee,” grumbled another waitress, appearing behind the silverware. “And said ‘don’t worry. I know how you feel.’”

“Did you spill it on him?” Hamilton asked. “That’s what you gotta do. You gotta take a big old sneeze right when someone says something dumb, and then be all like ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!’ when in actual fact, you are not sorry one bit. Or, you can wait for him to order a bottle of wine and decline his credit card.”

The waitress chuckled. “You haven’t done that.”

“I absolutely have,” Hamilton confirmed. “I’d do worse as well to the real assholes, short of tampering with food. The best is when you bend real low to their seat and let one rip, then get away before anyone realises it was you.”

Both girls burst out in laugher. Hamilton smiled back, feeling it slide right off his face as yet another crate of cutlery passed under his nose.

“Are you kidding me?” he appealed, waving his arms around in despair. “Fuck. I’m gonna be so late. John’s gonna kill me.”

The girls looked at each other, then one of them nudged Hamilton.

“Go on,” she said. “We’ll tell the manager you clocked out with us.”

Hamilton stared at them, scarcely believing his luck. “Seriously?” and when they nodded. “You guys are the _best._ Thank you so much, you’re lifesavers.”

He stripped off his apron, grabbing his coat and bag quickly before anyone could catch him sneaking out, and headed for the back exit.

The night was very dark after the polished sheen of crockery and glare of the too-bright kitchen. Hamilton shivered, drawing his coat around him as he hurried down the road, putting as much distance between himself and the hotel as he could. He fished about in his pocket for his phone, swearing as his fingers, swollen from shining, stumbled over Google maps.

“Ah fuck,” he whispered, seeing that he was still running later than he’d thought. “Ok, well, nothing we can do about that now, let’s just find the fucking subway and-”

“Alexander Hamilton?” came a voice behind him.  

“Uh, yeah?” Hamilton looked up. “How d’you-?”

He didn't manage much more than that, before someone punched him in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took me so long! i've been ridiculously swamped recently and had just about enough energy for some light relief but for some reason this chapter was really hard to get out. i think also i've had some motivation issues so thanks again to all of you still reading this and commenting, it means a lot!


	22. Rock Me Amadeus/You Spin Me - Falco/Dead or Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rock me all the time to the top

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do urself a favour and play this binch over from when Laurens starts playing
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cVikZ8Oe_XA

Hamilton fell back, clutching his face. “Jesus fuck-!”

Another punch to his stomach knocked the word from his windpipe. Hamilton gasped, doubling over, more in shock than pain. Before he had fully grasped what was going on, rough hands gripped him on either side, seizing him under his armpits and dragging him down a narrow side-street before throwing him up against the wall.

The back of Hamilton’s head smacked against the brick. He cursed, bright pain flashing through his skull as tiny lights appeared at the corners of his vision. Opening his eyes blearily he saw three figures dressed in black, coats pulled high and hoods low over their faces so that only pale cracks of skin were visible.

“My wallet’s in my pocket,” Hamilton babbled immediately. “There’s not a lot, I’m sorry, take what you want-”

He was rewarded for his compliance with a knee in the gut.

Hamilton hissed, sliding down the wall, breathing deep to try to order the pain into something he could compartmentalise. The effort of being winded proved too much and he found himself gasping for air. The pain was nothing though, _nothing_ to the fear slicing through him, almost making him numb. Here were three men…three men who had hurt him, who wanted to hurt him more, and here he was – entirely at their mercy.

_I’m going to die here in this alley._

The thought broke through the tender walls of his skull where his mind was already swimming in panic. After all of it – after his mother and father and getting sick, _her_ _body weak, breaking down around his own as she holds him, the death-rattle of their breaths sounding as one_ after the hurricane _there’s a house torn from its roots it has nowhere to go now it’s flying, it’s going to land on me_ He was going to die here, alone in this alley and the DJ set would go on and all his friends would dance and no one one was even going to know.

Another punch – this one barely registered. Hamilton had succeeded in disconnecting his mind, untethering it from its tight mooring so that his consciousness floated somewhere above his head and behind those of his attackers until he was looking down on himself. He had slid to the foot of the wall, was now laying horizontally so that his torso was bared to their kicks. A few dull registers of feet pounding into him, then it was over very quickly and someone was talking. Hamilton opened his eyes a crack. His mind was swimming to get back to him; he could hear the voices above him echoing dimly as though he were underwater.

“STOP, stop. That’s enough.”

“What should we do with him?”

“Just leave him. It’ll be fine, we gotta get out of here, come on.”

“I don’t know-”

“Come _on.”_

They took off down the street, hazy dark figures, insubstantial like smoke. “Thanks,” Hamilton called out after them, not quite sure what he was grateful for but knowing at least that he was alive and they had stopped kicking him.

He waited until the sound of their footsteps had pattered out before lifting himself off the floor into a sitting position. He lifted his hand to his head, pressing gingerly with his fingertips. It felt a little tender, but there were no blinding flashes. No blood either. Next his ribs – he ran his hand beneath his shirt, applying light pressure. There was some complaint, but he couldn’t feel a crack.

His phone was laying a few feet away. Hamilton crawled on his hands and knees towards it, heart sinking in his bruised chest upon glimpsing the screen. It was entirely shattered, the glass splintered around the shape of a heel print. Groaning, he tried to turn it on to no avail.

“God _dammit,”_ he muttered, real hopelessness crashing around him. “I have SO MANY EMAILS.”

He stuffed the useless thing into his back pocket, forcing himself gingerly to his feet. It was only when upright that he discovered just how much everything hurt. He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes and taking a minute to recover himself. His head was spinning – he tried to take deep breaths into his lungs, wincing when it hurt. Once he was fairly sure that he wasn’t going to vomit, he pushed himself off the wall and left the alley for the street.

“Okay Alex, Plan B,” he spoke to himself out loud, partly because it was comforting and partly in case he had a concussion. “Looks like the subway’s no longer an option. Not your fault – you hadn’t prepared for three guys to randomly jump you in a densely populated area as you were leaving a fancy hotel at nine pm. Not every situation can be planned for. What to do now? Check your wallet.”

He fished his wallet out his coat pocket. There was very little cash inside, but at least they had left him his bank card. His stomach fell as he thought about how much it was going to cost him to get a taxi across town. Probably half the night’s wages, at least.

“Look, I know it sucks,” he told himself severely. “It’s very painful. But. You did maybe almost get murdered. You can bite the bullet.”

He set off in search of the nearest ATM. There were quite a lot of people on the street – Hamilton was again surprised by the sheer gall of his attackers. But despite his limp, and the general, clearly involuntary aesthetic of “I have just been in a fight” most people gave him dirty looks or else completely avoided his gaze, hurrying away as if even to look was to be implicated. Probably they thought it was something to do with a gang, Hamilton considered bitterly as he made a beeline for a 7/11.

“Maybe it was a gang,” he said to himself as he fished out his card. “You don’t know. You weren’t exactly an active participant in the situation. That’s a really handy thing you can do right there, by the way. Very useful trick. Make sure to thank mom for that one, when you catch a glimpse of heaven at your next near-death experience.”

He fed the card into the machine, tapping his fingers against the steel. There was a particular song in his head, from a film or something. He remembered Laurens used to sing it all the time. Somehow it seemed apt for the situation, and he hummed it while he waited.

 _“Where is my mind,”_ he breathed out. _“Where is my mind…something about being in the Caribbean…where is my mind, way out in the water see it swimming…”_

“Alex?!”

“Oh come on,” Hamilton groaned, turning around and already half-preparing to meet the same assailants. “At least wait for me to get my card back if you’re gonna come at me again, Jesus.”

Instead, his heart leapt into his mouth at quite a different sight.

“Peggy?!”

Peggy ran across the road to meet him. Hamilton felt an instinctive flash of fear as cars sped past, noticing how she zig-zagged on unstable, heeled feet. She was wearing a denim jacket and very short club dress, the hem of which had largely ridden up her thighs which she yanked down impatiently. She was holding a bottle of Malibu in one hand.

“What are you doing here?” she slurred, eyes wide as she took in Hamilton’s appearance. “Oh my God! What happened to your face?”

“Is it really bad?” Hamilton touched his nose gingerly, terror flooding through him at the thought of it being broken.

“You’re bleeding…like…everywhere,” Peggy gushed. “Shit, shit. Okay. Hold on a sec.”

She tore off her jacket, attacking Hamilton’s face with the sleeve. Hamilton protested but in vain as she dabbed the blood away from his nose and mouth. 

“Fuck,” she swore savagely as the blood flooded thickly through the denim. “You need tissues. I’ll get you tissues.”

She ran inside the store before Hamilton could call her back, leaving him to dab at his face with her sleeve and wondering whether this night could get any weirder. A few minutes later she returned with wet wipes, a bottle of water, and a pack of Tylenol which she tossed at him. Hamilton returned her jacket which she pulled back on, apparently indifferent to the blood.

Hamilton scrutinised her suspiciously. “How are you so on it for someone so drunk?” he waggled his finger at her as she tried to hide the Malibu bottle. “Don’t play that with me, I’ve been there. What are you, sixteen? Seventeen? And why are you alone, where are your friends? I’m guessing they still didn’t let you in since you’re out so early.”

“Guess again,” Peggy snarled. “We got into Revolution.”

“You got into _Revolution?”_ Hamilton repeated, scandalised. “What the hell! They _still_ don’t let me in sometimes. You know what, I’m calling that racism _and_ sexism _._ Double-whammy. Whatever, I don’t care how old you look. You’re…you’re behaving badly.”

“Says the guy with a face that looks like it’s been a meat compressor,” Peggy retorts. “What happened to you? You got into a fight?”

“I dunno whether you can really call it that,” Hamilton mumbled, taking a swig from the water-bottle and downing the painkillers. “Or it was a very one-sided one anyway.”

“You mean you were _attacked?!_ By who?”

Hamilton shrugged. “Some white guys. Didn’t see faces.”

“Did they take anything?”

Hamilton shook his head. “Think they just wanted to make a point.” He moved his hand up to the back of his head, flinching even though the headache had begun to subside. “Fuck knows how they found me. I’ve been getting threats about something like this for months. Didn’t wanna think they’d actually go through with it.”

Peggy grit her teeth, jaw working fiercely in her anger. “We have to go to the police.”

Hamilton pulled a face. “Right now, I need to get to John’s gig,” he corrected her. “And _you_ off the streets. Where’s your phone? Have you got uber?”

“Duh,” Peggy rolled her eyes, wobbling precariously as she withdrew her phone from her pocket. “I was about to get one when I saw you.”

Hamilton’s face wriggled indignantly. “On your _own?”_ he demanded, aghast.

“Yeah?” Peggy raised a questioning eyebrow. “I do it all the time.”

“Well, you shouldn’t!” Hamilton blustered. “At least not when you’re this wasted. It’s not safe.”

“Calm your tits, grandpa,” Peggy rolled her eyes. “I’ve done it like, a thousand times. I’m not dead in a ditch yet.” She tapped at the screen, smiling in satisfaction as she slipped her phone back in her pocket. “It’s done. Three minutes.”

“Time enough for you to get something to eat,” Hamilton told her. “Come on.” He marched her back into the store, spending what little cash he had on a sandwich and chocolate bar. “Here,” he grunted, chucking them at her along with the water bottle. “You probably need it more than I do.”

“I’m not _that_ drunk,” Peggy rolled her eyes, but accepting it anyway.

A couple of minutes later the uber drew up. Peggy helped Hamilton into the backseat, a difficult feat seeing as she was so unsteady herself. The second the soft leather sank beneath him he felt his muscles drain of their last dregs of strength. He collapsed against the window, surrendering gratefully to the cocoon of warmth, easing over him like liquid.

Beside him, Peggy sat with her elbow against the window, her sharp chin propped on her palm. She was gazing out at the night, her expression still. Hamilton nudged her with his foot.

“You still haven’t told me why you were by yourself,” he reminded her. “Where were your friends?”

Peggy shook her head. “Doesn’t matter,” she replied. “It’s not important.”

“Um, I beg to differ,” said Hamilton, sitting up properly so he could use his adult voice. “I’m not sure what kind of friends leave you to walk alone shit-faced in the middle of the night, but if _I_ was your parent I would be having some serious words-”

“But you’re not,” Peggy cut across him harshly. “So shut up.”

She was blinking very hard. The lights out the window bounced off the glass, shining watery pools in her eyes. The pain in Hamilton’s chest tightened.

“Hey,” he said, touching her lightly on the arm. “Hey, come on. What happened?”

Peggy shook her head again but her bottom lip was trembling. The watery light tripped from its precipice, tracking slowly down her cheek. “It’s nothing,” she muttered, rubbing her eyes fiercely. “It’s so stupid.”

“I love stupid!” Hamilton poked her again. “Why do you think I’m dating John?” he thought about this for a second, shaking his head guiltily. “Ah no, fuck that, I can’t lie to make you feel better. He’s so super smart. Have you heard his average for this year? I bet you haven’t, he’s so quiet about it. And he didn’t even work _that_ hard. Asshole. Then again, he does do a lot of dumb shit. Although same, so. Can’t really talk. Anyway, back to you,” he wracked his brains in an attempt regain tether on the conversation. “Tell me who needs punching. Was it a boy? I’m a little worse for wear right now, but I don’t mind getting thrown around a bit more if it’s what you need.”

 _“Ugh_ no, it wasn’t a boy,” Peggy wrinkled her nose. “Dude. You’re literally in a gay relationship, why d’you have to charge headfirst to a heteronormative conclusion?”

“That’s true,” Hamilton accepted. “Society, I guess. And habit. Sorry.” He chewed his lip, hesitating before probing further. “Was it…not a boy?”

Peggy chanced a glare at him before looking back out the window. “Yes,” she said curtly.

“So like…a girl, or…?”

“Oh my God. _Yes,_ Hamilton, why are you such a loser?”

“I don’t want to jump to any more conclusions!” Hamilton raised his palms defensively. “Okay, cool, cool,” He paused again before throwing out casually, “She cute?”

This time, Peggy glared at him fully in the face. “She’s my _friend,”_ she said emphatically. “We were dancing together in the club. And we kissed, but -” another tear slipped, splashing onto her hand. She rubbed it away absently. “Then she turned away and she acted like, like you know when you get off with some random gross dude? Like it’s funny, it’s a joke, but there’s also that _embarrassment_ and…that…that…grossed out-ness…” she set her jaw, Hamilton could see the muscle jumping. “She looked at me like I was that dude. And then she didn’t talk to me, or look at me even. So I got upset, and I went outside to calm down. But when I came back inside, I couldn’t find anyone. And I couldn’t get hold of them, but at that point I didn’t care. I just wanted to go home. So I left.”

She said it all deadpan, monotonous. It didn’t matter, Hamilton felt the pain she was holding back as surely as if it had been his own. He touched her hand. She flinched, startled as if coming back to herself.

“There’s no difference,” she said. “None at all.”

“Ah, Pegs,” Hamilton exhaled heavily. “I know what you feel, trust me I do. But you gotta believe me…there’s a whole _world_ of difference between you and some gross, preddy guy in a club.”

“How is there?” she demanded. “If the reaction is the same, if she’s still just as embarrassed and… _disgusted_ with herself-”

“Because…” Hamilton struggled to articulate it in words he thought would get across to Peggy in her current state. “Because the culture’s different. That guy would have felt entitled to getting with you, or your friend. He would have assumed it was his right, and if you rejected him then on some level you’d have robbed him of that, and that’s on you. And I know this,” Hamilton tacked on. “Because I’m guilty of it. If a girl decides she doesn’t want me, I gotta work hard to suppress the same instinct that it’s her fault. With girls…it’s just not the same thing. You’re never gonna go into something with the expectation, or feeling deep down that it’s your divine right or whatever to get what you want.” He floundered for a second, trying to order his thoughts. “There’s no prior assumption,” he settled on eventually. “And more importantly, no matter how embarrassed or…or weirded out she might be, there will be absolutely no thought in her mind _ever_ about the possibility of you hurting her.”

He snuck a look at Peggy. She wasn’t looking out the window anymore but at her hands, twisting them in her fingers. There was a deep crease between her eyebrows.

“It’s different for you, though,” she said quietly. “You’re so… _okay…_ with everything. You make it look easy. You don’t know what it’s like to feel grossed-out by yourself.”

“That’s not true,” said Hamilton immediately. “Trust me. There’s a reason I worked so hard during high school, why I was so focused on distracting myself. Also, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I didn’t exactly grow up in the easiest place to be bisexual.”

Peggy looked up at him, eyes wide. “How did you deal with it?” she murmured.

Hamilton shrugged. “Faked it till I made it,” he replied.

“Did your…were your parents okay with it?”

He shrugged again. “My dad left before I figured it out,” he said. “I think my mom knew – she asked me once in a typical, heavily coded way. I never really knew what she thought about it. She died before it ever mattered anyway.”

Peggy didn’t say anything for a long time. Hamilton thought the subject was dropped until she said: “I know my parents wouldn’t mind.”

Hamilton nodded fervently. “That’s a really great thing to know,” he said, adding, “And your sisters would have your back.”

Peggy looked at him sharply. “Don’t tell them.”

“I won’t,” Hamilton agreed, adding, “On one condition,” and when Peggy frowned at him, “Next time you’re out by yourself, you _call me_. I can’t have you walking around alone at night. If you don’t want to get picked up by your family, then please get in touch with me at least.”

“And what are you gonna do?” Peggy challenged him. “You can’t drive.”

“I’ll get John, _obviously,”_ Hamilton rolled his eyes. “Better yet, give me your phone. I’ll put in his number so you can reach him direct.”

Reluctantly, Peggy handed him her phone. She watched as Hamilton entered his and Laurens’ numbers, tongue poking out a little in concentration.

“You know, when you first started going out, I didn’t get what Eliza saw in you,” she remarked.

“Yeah, you and me both,” muttered Hamilton, without looking up.

“I do now.”

“That’s character development for you.”

The uber drew up at the venue. Hamilton got out first, and offered Peggy his arm. She looped her own through it. Together they stumbled discordantly towards the entrance, trying to keep one another upright.

“Also, for what it’s worth,” said Peggy. “I was still sad when you broke up.”                                                                                         

Hamilton blew out a breath, lifting his gaze to the heavens. “Yeah,” he sighed again. “You and me both.”

They staggered into the museum. The bouncers gave them funny looks but upon seeing Hamilton was on the VIP list waved them through, dubiously falling for Peggy’s attempts to look sober. The place was completely packed, the bass from the speakers pounding through the walls and floor. Hamilton recognised the song instantly as Earth, Wind & Fire’s _September._ Predictably the crowd were loving it, dancing to the famous chorus with delighted abandon. Hamilton and Peggy eased through the wall of enthusiastic dancers, trying to catch a glimpse of Laurens.

“Excuse me,” Hamilton muttered, trying to ease someone screaming the words out the way. “Can I just…thanks…sorry…”

“Laurens actually catering to the masses?” Peggy raised an eyebrow. “That’s unlike him.”

“He can do lots of things,” Hamilton informed her. “That’s the main part of being a DJ, knowing your audience, sussing out the vibe…there he is! Aw man, look at him.”

Hamilton perched on his tip-toes, just stopping short of putting his hands on the shoulders of the people in front of him in an attempt for a better view. At the deck Laurens was king again, only with more of a calm confidence than Hamilton had ever seen him. He was clearly enjoying himself –bobbing his head and smiling at the crowd, but there was a cool detachedness there, a separation between him and the audience that was incredibly self-assured and professional. It was such a juxtaposition to how he had sounded on the phone that it was a little staggering. Hamilton watched, mouth going dry as Laurens reached coolly for another record, twirling it sexily like it was an extension of his arm before sliding it onto the player.

“How is my boyfriend so hot,” Hamilton said aloud to no one in particular. “Are you seeing this, Peggy? Are you seeing how sexy my boyfriend is?”

“He’s fine,” Peggy shouted back over the thumping bass.

“I’ll say,” Hamilton agreed. _“Damned_ fine. Is it gonna put him off if I shout at him? Whatever, I’m gonna do it. John! Hey!”

Hamilton thrust his hand in the air and jumped up and down, entirely ignoring the annoyance of the people around him. At his shout Laurens’ head jerked up, eyes going wide as he scanned the crowd for the source. As soon as he found it, his face split with the biggest, wildest grin Hamilton thought he had ever seen, a smile of such boundless joy it actually robbed him of breath and for a second, it was like the sun had burst through the grey walls of the National Museum of Mathematics.

“Oh,” escaped Hamilton’s mouth as the realisation took him.

The moment passed and Laurens’ grin changed, becoming wicked. He reached for a record, not breaking eye contact with Hamilton as he switched it out. There was a brief confusion from the crowd as the trumpets and funky rhythm slid away, wondering what it was being replaced with. An unfamiliar tune swelled in the speakers, high and electronic, trickling a little like water. And then louder, spilling out to flood the whole space as drum and bass kicked in with church-like gravity.  

“What the hell is _this?!”_ Peggy asked, staring at the speakers like they were pipe organs.

Hamilton shook his head, unable to speak. Laurens was still grinning at him, holding his gaze as he began to speak into the mic.

 _Er war ein Punker_  
_Und er lebte in der großen Stadt_  
_Es war in New York, war New York_  
_Wo er alles tat_

_Du bist ein Superstar_  
_Du bist beliebt_  
_Du bist so erhaben_  
_Weil du flair hast_  
_Du bist ein Virtuose_  
_Du bist ein Rockidol_  
_Und ich schreie_  
_Come and rock me Amadeus_

“UM,” Peggy’s eyebrows worked as she stared demandingly at Hamilton. _“What_ is going on?”

“Never mind,” parroted Hamilton automatically, quite aware that his pants were feeling rather a lot tighter than they had a minute ago.

 _Ich möchte dich betteln hören_  
_So mag ich dich_  
_Es macht mich an, wenn du schreist._  
_Ich bin bis über beide ohren verliebt_  
_Fühlt sich gut an liebling_  
_Come and rock me Amadeus_

“Is this seriously happening right now?” Peggy screamed. “Is he dirty talking to you in German?!”

“No,” said Hamilton, voice strained.

“He _is._ God! Get a room!”

Hamilton didn’t answer, his throat feeling too tight to make much noise beyond a vague whimper which, thank God, Peggy seemed not to hear.

At last the final chorus of _Amadeus_ began to slip and Hamilton relaxed, the heat easing from his burning face. The deep, choir-esque voice gave way to another, not dissimilar – Peggy clapped her hands, laughing in bewildered delight. Around her people were having similar reactions, or else immediately breaking into dance. At the front of the stage Laurens, still grinning, had finally torn his gaze from Hamilton’s and was flipping another record. He was moving properly now, body bending as his hands flew over the deck with the same unbridled joy as when Hamilton had first seen him perform.

 _If I_  
_I get to know your name_  
_Well if I_  
_could trace your private number, baby_

_All I know is that to me_  
_You look like you're lots of fun_  
_Open up your lovin' arms_  
_I want some, want some_

“Hey! Stop standing like a zombie!” Peggy reproved him, seizing both his hands and yanking them back and forth. “Dance with me!”

Hamilton laughed, breaking himself out of his own stupor and obliging. As he danced with Peggy he caught Laurens’ eye; Laurens winked at him, lips moving along to the chorus, and even though he wasn’t talking into the mic anymore Hamilton still felt like the words were directed at him:

_You spin me right round, baby_  
_Right round like a record, baby_  
_Right round round round_

Warmth crashed over Hamilton, like it had in the car earlier. It was the same kind, reminiscent of safety and comfort, and Hamilton felt equally grateful for it.

As intense as his feelings were they were a little overwhelming, and he was glad of the chance to dance with Peggy and lose himself to just having fun.

Eventually the song faded out and Laurens’ set came to an end. Hamilton’s gaze trailed hungrily after him as he waved the crowd a humble goodbye, immediately becoming swamped with producers and the event planners. Hamilton allowed himself to be buffeted by the crowd, surging forward to offer their last appreciations. As the ovation broke out he suddenly became aware of how many people there were; glancing at Peggy she saw she too was looking slightly anxious. Grabbing her hand, he took the lead in forcing their way back through the venue in the direction of the smoking area.

“Alex! There you are!”

 Hamilton turned to see his friends barrelling towards him, looking hot and sweaty but ecstatic. Their expressions froze however, quickly turning to horror as they drew nearer.

“What happened?” Lafayette demanded, reaching out to touch Hamilton’s face. “Your nose!”

“Is it broken?” Hamilton demanded back.

“I don’t think so, but it’s swollen and there is a lot of crusted blood.”

“Can someone get me some ice? I _cannot_ deal with it being any worse than it is already.”

“I’ll get it,” Beth said in a business-like manner, hurrying away for the bar.

“Who did this to you?” asked Mulligan, face working like he was going to cry. “What…how…”

“Some guys jumped me as I was leaving work,” Hamilton replied, allowing Eliza to ease him onto a bench and immediately slumping. “Ow. Okay, on second thought it was maybe _not_ a good idea to start dancing.”

“Which guys? Did you catch their faces?”

Hamilton shook his head. “Guessing whoever sent me that email,” he replied. “Speaking of, can I borrow someone’s phone to check my outlook? Assholes trashed mine and I got meetings to plan.”

“We need to go to the police,” stated Angelica grimly.

Hamilton nodded with a defeated sigh. “I’ll go first thing in the morning,” he said grudgingly. “But this is Laurens’ night, y’know? Let’s not make it a thing.”

“You just got _assaulted,”_ said Angelica through gritted teeth.

Hamilton waved dismissively. “I’m fine,” he said. “Really. Just a bruised ego and a couple of ribs. I meant what I said. Laurens’ night. Not a thing.”

He blinked unabashedly into his friends faces, all of which were frowning down at him with expressions of deepest displeasure.

“What,” he said. “Is not one of you gonna offer me a cigarette?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont have any German so apologies for mistakes. Apologies anyway, and mostly to me for forcing myself to google "german dirty talk"
> 
> the only translation I'll provide is Ich bin bis über beide Ohren verliebt = I'm head over heels in love because literally it's a little awkard. you can look the rest up urself.


	23. Mean Old World - Dreadzone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'm about to set another example

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for violence and slurs

Someone rolled Hamilton a cigarette, then Mulligan gestured at everyone to retreat; presumably under the pretext of giving Hamilton space but really so they could talk about him out of his earshot. Not minding, Hamilton took a long drag, head falling back against the bench as he exhaled. He was starting to feel very tired, the adrenaline of the assault only now just wearing off. Closing his eyes he saw the alley in his mind; flashes of a heeled boot in his side, three shadows closing in around him, breathing in and tasting blood. Squashing down the instinctive panic rising in his stomach he tried to clear the image. The alley swam away – he closed his eyes again and saw a beach being ripped from its roots by the sky.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, running a hand over his face and blinking hard. He took another drag of his cigarette, only to find that it had gone out.

“Here,” André stepped forward swiftly, lighter raised.

“Thanks,” Hamilton crooked his chin forward, cupping his hands round the small flame leaping from André’s. He flicked ash onto the ground, blowing a stream of smoke upwards. “Where did you spring from? Coming out of the shadows like Nosferatu. You gotta give a guy warning when you look like you do, John.”

André laughed weakly. Hamilton glanced him over. He looked pale enough to be a vampire, his perfect skin bloodless and taut beneath the shock of dark hair. His eyes were wide and fearful as they took Hamilton in.

“I heard about what happened,” he said, the words barely escaping from his lips. “God, Alexander, I’m so, _so_ sorry-”

Hamilton cut him off with a dismissive wave. “Not your fault,” he replied. “Wasn’t like any of us saw it coming.”

André swallowed hard but didn’t say anything. Hamilton, feeling discomfortingly self-aware beside André’s elegant form, resettled his ice-pack.

“What are you going to do?” André asked after a while. “Report them to the police?”

Hamilton shrugged. “Yeah, I guess,” he replied unenthusiastically. “A lot of good it’ll do, I’m sure. To be honest, I wouldn’t be overly surprised if they’d ordered the hit. I’m being facetious, obviously. Still, you know. Fred Hampton.”

“It wouldn’t be difficult to find out who it was,” André said quietly. “If you wanted.”

Hamilton squinted at him past the ice-pack and shadow of his swollen nose. André was looking at him intently, allowing no mistaking of his meaning. Hamilton shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t want anyone else caught up in this. I feel like in this case, it’s probably safer to play by the rules.” He hesitated before adding, “Thanks for offering, though.”

André’s shoulders rose and fell. “I just feel awful,” he said. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“Don’t,” Hamilton assured him, stamping the butt beneath his foot. “And if you want, you could roll me another one.”

André obliged, fishing out his papers. Hamilton watched his long, graceful hands absently as he bent to lick the seam; pianist’s fingers rolling around the tobacco before passing it to Hamilton.   

“Thanks,” said Hamilton, accepting it gratefully.

“Laurens said you didn’t smoke.”

“I don’t,” Hamilton confirmed, taking a long and counter-logical drag. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Ugh. He is gonna _flip_ his _shit_ when he finds out.”

André nodded. “He’s protective.”

“He’s _nuts,”_ Hamilton huffed, then felt instantly guilty. “That’s not fair. I didn’t mean that. Don’t repeat it.” He glanced up at André, letting the ice-pack slip an inch from his face. “I’m really happy you guys are friends, by the way. I don’t know if I ever told you that. He puts up with a lot of shit from people who think they know him inside out. It’s never meant maliciously, still. I’m glad he has someone he can relate to, with more distance from everything, if you get me.”

André smiled wryly. “You mean another white friend?”

“I didn’t say that,” replied Hamilton. _You forgot ‘rich’._ “Anyway. I’m glad you’re in the group. I kind of hoped you would be.”

The wry smile turned shy. “Me too.”

Hamilton nodded, ashing his cigarette in silence. He hesitated for a long time, mulling it over in his head before deciding _fuck it_ and going for the dive. “You know, this is pretty embarrassing, but I kind of used to have this massive crush on you,” he confessed.

André looked at him pityingly. “Yeah, I knew.”

Hamilton’s head jerked up. “You did?”

“…Yeah.”

“Oh,” Hamilton’s cheeks were heating.

“It was kind of obvious.”

“Ok,” said Hamilton, moving the ice-pack to cool his swiftly-burning skin. “That’s great. That’s fantastic.”

André was grinning, the deep dimples in his cheeks only just stopping it short of being smug. “I thought it was really cute.”

“You can stop talking any time you want, John.”

André laughed. “Nah, don’t worry,” he said. “I doubt I’ve done a much better job of being subtle.”

Hamilton fixed his expression into one that was appropriately sympathetic, rather than mortified. “You mean with Peggy Shippen,” he nodded.

“Um,” said André. “Yeah, her. And also with…with other people.”

Hamilton’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Other people?” he repeated, intrigued at the prospect of further gossip.

A pink flush had crept into André’s cheeks and he avoided Hamilton’s gaze. “Yeah, I mean, you know,” he shrugged. “It’s pretty easy when…when…you’re pretty much surrounded by good-looking people…Your friendship group is really cool, do you know that? I mean all of you. And you and Laurens, especially, I mean. You’re both really cool.”

Hamilton blinked at him, a little unsure at the connection between André’s fumbling words and the increasing colour of his face. “…Thanks?”

André’s response was to raise his cigarette in an odd sort of salute, which if anything had Hamilton feeling even more perplexed.

The door to the exit clattered open, and both André and Hamilton jumped. Laurens’ glance darted around the smoking area, face breaking into a grin when he spotted Hamilton. He stopped short, however, upon catching sight of him and André, confusion and something like jealousy flitting over his features.

Hamilton was first to recover, pushing himself up from the bench and rushing to forwards to meet him.

“Hey!” he exclaimed, genuinely forgetting for a moment all the unpleasantness that had happened that evening in the joy of seeing him. “You were incredible! What did I tell you?”

He paused, needing a second to take in Laurens’ new hair. He had sent him a picture after he’d done it – still, now that he was seeing it properly, it did little to prepare him for the change. Face to face with the harsh, uncompromising crop Hamilton stared, mouth working soundlessly, feeling tears prick the back of his eyes.

“Your hair!” he forced out, voice horribly bright to his own ears.

Laurens ran a hand over his newly shaved scalp. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah! I do!” Hamilton lied, running a hand despairingly through the remaining curls and blinking hard. “It’s sexy. Very macho.”

_Fuck Henry Laurens fuck Henry Laurens fuck Henry Laurens SO HARD_

“Thought it was about time I outgrew my hippie phase,” Laurens explained. “No offence, André.”

“I liked your long hair,” Hamilton said, voice catching a little before he could control himself.

Laurens shrugged. “Wasn’t appropriate,” he said shortly. “I have to apply for internships soon.” His arms went to circle Hamilton’s waist and he drew him in, smiling coyly. “So you enjoyed it, huh?”

Hamilton reached up to slink his arms round Laurens’ neck, smile becoming more natural as he gazed adoringly up at him. “Yeah,” he said, dropping his voice to whisper lowly. “You know uh, it would be really swell if I could go to at least _one_ of your gigs without popping a boner.”

Laurens laughed and ducked his head, embarrassed and delighted. “How much did you understand?”

“Enough,” Hamilton replied emphatically.

Laurens grinned in self-satisfaction, slipping a lock of hair behind Hamilton’s ear and leaning forward to kiss him. He stopped short suddenly, forehead wrinkling into a frown.

“What happened to your face?” he breathed out, horrified, finger flitting over Hamilton’s nose and lip.

Instinctively, Hamilton’s hand jumped in an attempt to cover the damage. “It’s nothing,” he parroted. “There was just…er…there was sort of an incident as I was leaving work.”

“What kind of an incident?” asked Laurens, voice already climbing in volume.

Hamilton shushed him instinctively, putting his hands on Laurens’ chest. “Some guys jumped me,” he said quietly.

“You got _mugged?!”_

“Er…no. Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?” asked Laurens, voice so loud now people were starting to stare. “What are you saying? Are you…are you telling me you were ASSAULTED?”

“Jesus,” Hamilton’s glance flitted over his shoulder, anxiously conscious of the onlookers. “Look, calm down, okay, I’m fine-”

“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down!” said Laurens, throwing off Hamilton’s hands. “I can’t believe this…I can’t…you were _attacked?_ Tell me…tell me what happened, who was it, what did they-”

“I don’t know who it was,” Hamilton told him calmly, trying his best to be soothing. “It was three of them, they were all wearing black, they came out of nowhere-”

“How the fuck did they know where you work?” Laurens demanded, although oddly, the question seemed directed at André.

Hamilton followed his gaze to where André was staring, white-faced and dumbstruck. “I don’t know,” he turned frowningly back to Laurens. “Maybe they followed me. I’m guessing it’s the same people who sent me that email so God knows what else they have on me-”

“I can’t process this,” Laurens stammered, chest rising and falling frantically. “I can’t… _fuck._ FUCK!”

“Hey!” Hamilton caught his hands tightly just as they shot up to tear at his skull. “Stop that. Listen to me. I’m fine, ok? Look at me.”

He waited, eyes unmoving from Laurens while he breathed heavily, shoulders rising and falling as he tried to work himself down. At last Laurens met his gaze; his eyes were wide, the pupils blown twice the size and there was a muscle leaping in his jaw. He relaxed slightly as Hamilton took his hand and kissed it, running his thumb over the knuckles.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, staging a smile.

Laurens nodded distractedly. His eyes were sparkling; he wiped at them with the crook of his arm. “What did they do?” he asked, coming back to more urgent matters. “Are you badly hurt, do you need to go to the hospital-?”

Hamilton cut him off with a shake of his head. “Really, it’s nothing,” he insisted. “More scary than anything else. And, well. Will you still like me if my nose is broken off-centre?”

The corner of Laurens’s mouth twitched reluctantly. He lifted his hands to cup Hamilton’s face, stroking gently at the swelling. “I don’t know about that,” he smiled softly. “This is my favourite nose, after all.”

Hamilton beamed at him.

“Nice, that’s cute,” choked out André in the background. “Uh, you know what, if you guys don’t need me, I’m just gonna -”

“John!” Lafayette’s voice ripped through the calm, reappearing with the others and making their way towards them.

“Or I guess I’ll stay here,” muttered André as Laurens’ friends took turns hugging and clapping him on the back. 

“You told him what happened?” Angelica asked Hamilton urgently.

Hamilton nodded, pressing himself more fully against Laurens, gratified when his arm tightened around him. “So we can change the subject now.”

“What are we going to do?” Lafayette hissed in Laurens’ ear.

Noticing, Hamilton looked sharply at him. “I _said_ we can change the subject,” he repeated through gritted teeth. “How about that final set huh? That was really something. Weren’t expecting that old blast from the past, were we, Pegs?”

Peggy pulled a face, staring accusingly at Laurens. “You scarred me for life.”

“You don’t speak German,” replied Laurens.

“I took it as an elective last year.”

“Oh,” said Laurens. “Sorry.”

“What did he say?” Eliza nudged Peggy curiously.

“Okay,” Hamilton clapped his hands. “New subject change. I’m gonna head back inside,” he readdressed Laurens. “I haven’t seen any of the other stuff yet. And then I’m probably gonna take off. I’m really sorry, I would stay for longer but I’m super beat.”

“Yeah, no, of course,” Laurens nodded distractedly. “You go ahead, I’ll be right there.”

Hamilton smiled at him, squeezing his hand once and following the others inside. Laurens waited until nearly everyone had traipsed through the door before seizing Lafayette and André by the arm, pulling them to him roughly.

“You two,” he hissed at them in an undertone. “After this. Back to mine.”

*

Lafayette wasn’t exactly sure what he’d expected by way of Laurens’ reaction.

This sort of dwarfed it, though.

“Hey, stop. STOP.” He and André seized Laurens’ shoulders as he made to kick again at the murdered Areca plant, wrestling him towards the centre of the room.

“HOW can this have happened?” Laurens bellowed, face glowering with furious flame. “How – how-”

“There’s nothing on the chat about it till 8.28 this evening,” André pulled out his phone, hands shaking as he skimmed the screen. “We were all at your gig. We must have missed it.”

Laurens picked up an empty bottle from the coffee table and threw it at the wall.

“Jesus Christ,” Lafayette snarled, yelling over the sound of shattering glass. “You don’t own this apartment!”

“Tell me the names,” Laurens demanded, gesticulating fiercely at André. “I’m ready to kill someone.”

“They’re all together now,” André replied, still looking at the screen. “Local bowling alley. Amhurst is one, but he’s with the leaders, the ones who are most active.”

Lafayette swore savagely. “Those are the only ones we don’t _know.”_

“How could they have known where he worked?” Laurens snapped.

André and Lafayette looked at each other, both at a loss.

“He’s signed up to a large catering company, right?” André suggested. “One of those ones that communicates by email? Maybe someone hacked him?”

Lafayette shook his head. “If they could do that, imagine the havoc they could cause.”

André shrugged. “Maybe he just mentioned it in earshot, then,” he said. “Or they caught sight of his computer screen.”

“Or one of you told them,” said Laurens.

Lafayette and André stared at him. An entire hour seemed to pass, broken only by the low static buzzing from the television set.

“What,” said Lafayette slowly into the silence.

“You heard me,” Laurens said. “The only people who have direct access to both Alex and this chat are in this room.”

“Are you actually insane,” André breathed out.

“Don’t test me,” Laurens hissed, surging forward until he was right in André’s space. “I know the people you hang around with. Clinton? Burgoyne? They’re not exactly left of centre.”

“This is from someone who used to be friends with _Charles Lee,”_ André protested, eyes stretched wide in shock.  “Not to mention Thomas Conway, I wouldn’t call _them_ Alex’s biggest fans.”

“And you’d count yourself in that category, would you?”

“I – of course,” André blustered, face blanching. “John, what are you-”

“I knew there was another reason you hang out here all the time,” Laurens snarled. “It’s not just for me and Ben, is it?”

“This is getting ridiculous,” Lafayette stepped in swiftly as André stared at Laurens like he was a mad person. “Laurens, calm down. Get a hold of yourself before you say something really idiotic.”

“Don’t act like you’re clear of this,” Laurens whirled at him. “I _know_ how you’re all buddy-buddy with Jefferson.”

Lafayette blinked, a little shaken. However, he stared Laurens down levelly, eyes flinty as steel, and his voice was dangerous when he spoke. “If you are going to accuse me of betraying Alexander Laurens, you had better make yourself clear.”

Laurens flushed instantly. He stepped away from André, suddenly embarrassed and aware of what he was doing. “I’m just covering all bases.”

“You can do that without suggesting any of us would be a traitor to their best friend,” Lafayette sounded choked, crossing his arms over his chest and turning away his chin, blinking hard.

“I’m sorry,” Laurens muttered. “I’m angry. I’m not thinking straight.”

“We’re Alex’s friends, John,” André, recovering but still looking shaky, reached out to touch Laurens’ arm. “…And yours. We’re on your team.”

Laurens’ glance shifted from André to Lafayette. They were both looking pale and fearful; Lafayette crying, bitterly angry and upset. But they were both looking at him.

“Okay,” said Laurens, after a long time had passed. “Then prove it.”

*

The bowling alley shut at 11. Benefits of employee status. Charles didn’t like the fact of being obliged to work. After the incident at the Bethusda fountain, his father had stopped his allowance and paid only for his rent, out of an anxiety that he would blow away the rest on coke and fuck up his exams. Told Charles that if he wanted to fund his hobbies then he could do it like a man and get a real job, accompanied by some bullshit about standing on his own two feet. Yadda yadda. As if Lee Senior wasn’t born with his own share of a silver spoon.

True, he missed DJ-ing. There was nothing like the feel of that – the power that came from an audience suspended. But the scene was John Laurens’ now, and if he couldn’t be the best then he couldn’t do it at all. Another lesson from his father. Still, somehow, he felt it was more Hamilton’s fault than Laurens’ that since the night at Republic nowhere would have him play. His smile widened further at the thought that at least he’d got him back for that.

As jobs came though, he really could do worse. Lee watched his friends make fools of themselves, a self-satisfied smile curling as he thought about the evening’s work. He took a bite of his hotdog and sipped his lemonade, the cheap carbonated sugar tasting even sweeter than usual.

Amhurst let out a whoop as his ball knocked through the pins, sending them flying. “Fuck yeah,” he crowed. “Another strike for the house of Amhurst.”

“Whatever man,” Conway sulked unsportingly, turning his back on the. “This is a kid’s game.”

“Hey man, don’t be like that,” Amhurst slapped him playfully on the shoulders – a mistake, Lee knew. “Just because you’re a sore loser.”

“Quit it,” said Conway sharply, shaking Amhurst off. “I’m tired, my aim’s off. When the hell can we go home?”

Lee checked his Rolex. “Give it an hour,” he replied. “Time for the dogs to leave off our scent.”

“You really think he’ll have gone to the police?” Amhurst wrinkled his nose sceptically.

Lee shrugged. “Better safe than sorry,” he replied. Truthfully, he thought Hamilton way too proud to lower himself to his self-professed enemy. Still, he was under strict instructions, and he wasn’t about to fuck _this_ up too.

“Remember the look on his face?” Amhurst’s face was wild with glee. “He was so surprised. Like he couldn’t even believe what was happening.”

“Faggot had it coming a long time,” Conway confirmed. “Only his arrogance that made him so surprised. This ought to take him down a peg or two.”

Lee snorted disdainfully. “If I know Hamilton, it’ll take more than a beating to knock some humility into him,” he remarked. “People like him need to be told little and often.”

The sound of the bell alerted them to the entrance doors being opened. Lee swore as he got to his feet, realising he must have forgotten to lock them. Christ, he was bad at this job.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” he winced, thinking about how he was going to explain the others who so obviously did not work here, plus the fact they were all in black.

The three guys at the door didn’t reply. They had their hoods up; still it was possible in the glare of the neon lighting to make out one face in particular.

Lee squinted, confusion barring his judgement. “…Laurens?”

Before he had the chance to ask what the hell he was doing here Laurens was charging forward, grabbing Lee by the shoulders and hurling him into the nearest table.

Lee gasped, struggling to sit up. Laurens held him down fast, punching him twice in the face until his nose exploded, blood running from the splintered cartilage. The thick, sickening taste of copper flooded his mouth; he spat it out, trying to see past the swift bruising of his vision. To his right he could just make out the other two; one he recognised as Lafayette pummelling Conway’s stomach while the other kicked at Amhurst, laying on the floor.

“Look at me. HEY. LOOK at me,” Laurens spat, shaking him harshly. “I told you I’d do the other side to match, didn’t I?”

“Laurens,” Lee protested feebly, blinking away the blood in his eyes. “Laurens…dude…what-”

Laurens hit him again, fist smashing into his jaw. Lee felt it pop.

“Don’t even try,” Laurens warned him. “You’re lucky I don’t throw you into a shallow grave. Come on man, where’s your fight back? Should be easy, it’s not like you’re alone, not like it’s three on one. You’ve got your buddies with you and all. There’s three of us. You’re not outnumbered.”

“Please,” the word escaped from Lee’s busted lips before it had crossed his brain.

Laurens’ features twisted into expression of deepest loathing. “You’re pathetic,” he told him. “You’re disgusting. Man, I knew you were a loser but I never thought that you’d stoop so low. You’re not a racist…at least, not like the others, you’re not even smart enough to do it on purpose. So why did you do it, huh? Jealousy? Is that it?”

Lee didn’t reply. Lafayette stamped his foot into Conway’s abdomen and out of the corner of his eye he saw Amhurst’s chin snap back with the force of the other guy’s punch, startling a sharp cry.  

“Who put you up to this?” Laurens yelled, tightening his grip on the front of Lee’s shirt. “Who’s behind it all? Is it Jefferson?”

Despite his swollen lips, Lee kept them clamped. Lafayette pelted his fist into Conway’s face, he heard his howl break off into a whimper before it was drowned out by his shout: “ANSWER HIM.”

“It was our dads,” Conway sobbed. “Please…we were just…we’re just doing what we’re told.”

Lee felt his last reserves of strength drain from his muscles. Laurens’ brow warped and darkened with confusion as he struggled to put Conway’s confession together. In the end he abandoned making sense of it, settling instead for elbowing Lee once more in the stomach.

“That’s for Alexander,” he snarled partingly, and quite unnecessarily. “Eat shit and die.”

He jerked his head at his friends and together they walked out of the bowling alley, leaving the others bleeding on the floor behind them.


	24. Scribble - Underworld

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because everything is a mess

_One year ago_

“Come on…what the fuck?” Hamilton huffed impatiently as the minute hand ticked to three, signalling another whole hour had gone by.

Predictably, the empty room did not reply. Hamilton resumed the jiggling of his leg, shaking it all the more urgently as his eyes flitted from the textbook dangling optimistically in one hand back towards the door.

“Who the hell takes a three-hour lunch break?” he demanded of the faded beige carpet. “Seriously, how much are ya’ll getting paid you can just take off in the middle of the day?”

He glared challengingly at the vacant front desk. Surely there must have been some sort of emergency for the receptionist to still be gone, or at the very least a misunderstanding leading to no one covering the afternoon shift. Actually yeah, that was more likely, Hamilton thought to himself. There had been some sort of muddle – the designated had forgot to send round the slots or update the sign in sheet, or whatever. Perils of admin. Or someone said they could cover a shift, and then forgotten. No matter, not important. Whatever the reason for the receptionist’s absence, it didn’t look like they were coming back anytime soon.

Huffing frustratedly Hamilton got to his feet, approaching the desk and craning his neck as if to make doubly sure no one had magically materialised without his noticing. He knew full well it was his anxiety rather than any logical movement, a desperate hope that sheer will alone could make the time speed faster.

“Bullshit, this is bullshit,” he muttered to himself, tapping his fingernails atop the counter, real worry making his glance surge again for the clock.

A motion at the door had his head whipping round with relief, a joy that soon dissipated upon realising it was not the receptionist but an older man, looking as hesitant and sheepish as a student. Hamilton’s hopes plummeted.

“Hi,” he said dully, turning back to the empty desk.

 “Good afternoon,” the man replied awkwardly. “Er…is there no one here?”

Hamilton gestured grandly at the empty receptionists’ office. The man nodded concedingly. “How long have you been waiting?”

“Nearly two hours,” said Hamilton, adding “I brought a book” in case he thought he was a loser.

The man huffed out a short, frustrated breath.

“Ah,” he said tightly. “That is…inconvenient.”

He was holding an envelope in one hand, the good, thick paper testifying to its importance. Hamilton’s attention was drawn to it like a moth to fluorescent light. He flicked his finger. “Something urgent?”

The man nodded tersely. “Rather.”

“I feel you, man,” Hamilton ran a hand through his hair. “I gotta get my candidate number. They sent it to us last week except they gave me some random person’s – another Alexander Hamilton _._ Very common name, easy mistake to make. I didn’t even find out until I tried to fill out my bursary forms and it came back yesterday without having gone through. But they’re due today at _five_ so, you know. Kind of an important deal.”

“It sounds it,” the man drew nearer, propping his elbows before the glass and looking at Hamilton quizzically. “What happens if you don’t get them in?”

“Oh man,” Hamilton rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I don’t even wanna think about that, to be honest. I mean – worst comes to the worst, if I miss the deadline and don’t get the bursary sorted for this semester, then I’ll just have to borrow until next and hope that the back payments are thrown in on top. But it means I’ll have to move out of accommodation and start living at my friend’s again which I’d really rather not do. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Mulligan’s a good guy and his couch is comfier than a lot I’ve slept on in the past. But his brother’s moved back in and I was already starting to feel like a burden before, so. You don’t need to know any of this,” he cut himself off suddenly. “Sorry. I tend to get a little over-sharey when I’m under stress.”

“That’s alright,” said the man kindly, blue eyes sympathetic. “I’m sorry to hear things are difficult.”

“They’re not,” Hamilton huffed, annoyed at being pitied by a stranger and even more so that he had essentially commandeered it. “Or at least, they aren’t _yet._ But they _will be_ if I can’t get a hold of my _candidate number.”_ He broke off frustratedly, trying to think of a way to shift the spotlight from himself. “But whatever, it’s not life and death. Your thing must be pretty crucial, envelope like that. Good paper and all.”

The man looked down at the envelope in his hands with a grimace. “…It’s a little crucial.”

Hamilton winced in empathy. “Life and death?”

“Close to.”

Hamilton let out a low whistle, turning back to where a sheet of glass prevented them both from their goals. “Looks like we’re both in a pickle.”

They stared dismally at the glass.

“Perhaps we could break in?” the man broke the silence hopefully.

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?” he said doubtfully. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t exactly wanna risk getting chucked out of this school first term. It was ball ache enough getting here.”

“That won’t be a problem,” the man assured him. “I’m pretty high up in the ranks.”

Hamilton’s other eyebrow flew up. “Really?” he queried, intrigued. “What are you, a department head?”

The man smiled wryly. “Something like that,” he said.

Hamilton looked him up and down, doubtfully taking in his dad sweater and threadbare slacks.

“You got any ID at all?” he asked. “Not that I don’t trust you, just if you turn out to be a burglar or spy or something I don’t wanna get in trouble.”

“This do?” asked the man, passing him a professor’s parking permit. Hamilton squinted at the barcode, checking the insignia without taking in the name, and stepped back with a shrug.

“Whatever you say man,” he said, sceptical but convinced. “On your head be it.” He craned his neck, trying to get a good enough angle to see into the room. “There’s an open window,” he relayed. “Not big enough for me to get through. But if we had something long we could maybe hook the door handle.”

“Like a measuring stick?” asked the man promptly.

“Yeah, that’d probably do,” Hamilton replied but before he had finished the man was already partway out the door, returning a couple of minutes later with a long wooden rod.

“Um,” said Hamilton, accepting the stick perplexedly and turning it over in his hands. “I hate to pry…but why do you just…have this?”

“To measure hawthorns,” replied the man, as if it were obvious.

“Right,” said Hamilton. “Ok, let’s try it out. You might have to give me a leg up.”

They exited the office, following the building round until they were directly beneath the open window. The man bent dutifully to lift Hamilton up; Hamilton scrambled for purchase on the ledge. Once he got his bearings he managed to shove the measuring stick through the gap, halting for an anxious moment as he wondered whether there were cameras.

“You sure you’re important enough to explain this to the authorities?” he asked the man, currently concentrating hard on keeping still beneath him. “I don’t fancy how this looks on the tapes.”

“I’m sure,” the man replied. “Anyway, I think we’re out of reach.”

“That’s not good security.”

“I mean, clearly.”

After a long time of wiggling the rod up and down, and a precarious moment where the man nearly lost his hold and Hamilton was sent toppling to the earth, they managed to get the door open. A minute later they were inside, glancing nervously around the empty office like children scared of being caught in a parents’ study.

“What now?” the man whispered.

“I don’t know dude, this is your plan,” Hamilton answered, despite making a beeline for the filing cabinet. “There’s gotta be a hard copy of freshman files around somewhere.”

He began rummaging through the files, kissing his teeth at the mess he found inside.

“God,” he tutted to himself, rifling through loose sheaves of ripped and unfiled pages with disgust. “What kind of system is this? Straight alphabetizing’s no good for records this size…you gotta do it numerically first and then sub-categorise…you know what, this is probably what caused the problem, if they’d done it by candidate number instead of name and date of entry you could have straight avoided the mix-up. Some of these files are way outdated, look, you can see where the spines are coming away and insects or whatever have eaten through. And _where_ is the logic in this colour coding, they’ve got way too much going on here…all of this needs to be simplified so that the categories are by year rather than whatever the fuck this is…God. No _wonder_ it took Lafayette so long to get his shit sorted, digitalising all of this must have taken a half a century…I wish I had time to sort this all out for them, Jesus.”

“I take it you have some experience in filing,” observed the man, examining the space with quaint curiosity.

“I’ll say,” said Hamilton darkly. “I’ve only been doing it since I was fourteen. Revolutionised my old company’s system and all. I got a very nice email from my old boss the other day, saying they still use the one I set up.”

“You worked in an office when you were _fourteen?_ Whereabouts?”

“Beekman & Cruger,” Hamilton answered casually. “Import/exports in St Croix, you won’t have heard of it. I was only a sec but I worked there three years – long enough to remember a few things.”

“That’s very impressive,” the man commented.

Hamilton shrugged. “I matured fast for my age,” he replied. “Kind of stagnated somewhat around my late teens. Might have to start going door to door offering my services – even if this stuff does go through, I could really do with the extra cash.” Spotting his name, he drew out the file with some effort. “Aha! Alexander Hamilton, 2016, US Virgin Isles. That’s me. And _there’s_ my candidate number!”

He tore off a piece of paper and wrote it down, taking a picture as well just in case.

“Sweet,” he said satisfactorily, slipping the file back into place and slamming the cabinet closed. “That’s taken care of. What about you?”

“Looking for my colleague’s pigeon hole,” the man informed him. “Dr Benjamin Rush.”

Hamilton turned to the shelves behind him, skimming along until he had found Rush. “Here,” he said. “What do you need?”

“Is there an envelope inside, similar to this one?”

Hamilton passed it to him. The man took it, breathing a sigh of relief before promptly slicing it open.

“What did you do?” asked Hamilton slyly, feeling like he already had an inkling.

“Er…” the man looked embarrassedly up at Hamilton. “I’m afraid I made a stupid mistake, and put some very sensitive documents intended for someone else in the wrong envelope.”

“Those documents wouldn’t have anything to do with budgetary matters, would it?”

“…Worse. Lay-offs.”

Hamilton’s eyes widened with incredulity. “Oh my God,” he breathed out a laugh. “ _Dude._ You would have been in a whole _world_ of shit.”

“You’re telling me,” the man replied through gritted teeth, shuffling the correct documents into place.

Hamilton shook his head in disbelief. “Wow,” he said, taking the extended envelope and sliding it into the indicated cubbyhole. “No wonder you were so stressed, I’d hate to have had to explain _that_ to my boss. Are you all done here? We should get going before reception inopportunely decide to show up.”

They were halfway out the door when the phone on the desk started ringing.

They both froze, staring at it like it was something accusatory. They looked at each other.

“What do we do?” Hamilton whispered.

“Nothing,” the man answered. “Leave it, let’s go.”

“I can’t just leave a phone unanswered,” Hamilton protested. “It might be important.”

Before the man could stop him Hamilton crossed the room, picking up the phone and speaking chirpily into the receiver. “Good afternoon, you’ve reached General Admission and Enquiries, how can I help you?” He nodded vaguely, ignoring the man’s mouthing at him. “I’m afraid all working staff are currently absent at the moment, do you mind if I transfer you to the Postmaster to deal with your request? Great, bear with me one moment,” he held the phone to his chest, calling out to the man. “Do you know the number for the Postmaster?”

“I think it’s this,” the man replied, holding out his own phone with the contact.

Hamilton dialled the number. There was a brief pause while he transferred the call, then hung up promptly.

“Cool,” he said, getting to his feet. “That could have gone a lot worse. Sorry about that, I have a real thing about phones. Let’s go.”

 

A week passed, and the forms went through without further misadventure. Hamilton had more or less forgotten about his alliance in reception and subsequent breaking-and-entering when one day, he opened his inbox to find he had an email from an unknown address.

_Dear Mr Hamilton_

_Further to our meeting in reception on Tuesday last, I would like to invite you to apply for a paid position as my Personal Administrative Assistant._

_It has come to my attention that my skills are quite unsuited to the tasks of this particular role. Our brief but revealing encounter has convinced me that you fit the requirements more than adequately._

_I require a part-time office clerk to undertake basic administrative and secretarial duties, including but not limited to: filing, book-keeping, diarising, appointments, calls, mail, etc. Hours to be suited around your timetable and studying schedule._

_If you would seek to apply, you need only send a copy of your CV and the contact details of a previous employer who would be willing to provide a reference. No interview will be necessary._

_I look forward to hearing from you._

_Kind regards_

_George Washington_

_President, Columbia University_

*

_Present day_

Hamilton could not get to sleep after Laurens’ gig. For a long while he tried, downing a cup of camomile tea and laying ram-rod straight in bed, trying to force himself into unconsciousness. But every time he closed his eyes the alley flashed in front of him and he was flooded by that same feeling – not pain but entrapment. The walls around him grew tighter, heart beating fast in his chest as he would start to panic, instincts kicking into overdrive.

Finally, when the frustration got too much he abandoned the attempt. He thought about calling Laurens but restrained himself, thinking he didn’t want to spoil his night more than he had done already. Instead he reached for his glasses, switched his camomile out for coffee, and resumed his research into the NYPD.

The names Woodhull had given him were pinned to his noticeboard. Hamilton started with the cops who had hurt Laurens, cross-referencing them with Woodhull’s leads and those who had assaulted Jamal. The information was detailed and thorough, showing more than a few had been involved in past instances of brutality, although the cases had been largely abandoned or withdrawn. Hamilton printed out an article on a group of Puerto Rican teenagers who had suffered mistreatment at the hands of one of the cops for messing around with a fire hydrant. He was just beginning to amass a steady pile of historical incidents when Horatio Gates’ name caught his eye.

Hamilton squinted at the page, wondering whether it could be a coincidence. But then he remembered what Henry Laurens had said, about Gates enjoying a good relationship with the department. Richard Woodhull had acted as magistrate on several of his cases, ruling in his favour each time – a fact Abe had scrawled beside three sceptical question marks.

“Yeah, think I agree with you, bro,” Hamilton whispered. “Something is definitely rotten in the state of New York.”

He looked up the cases Gates had been involved with, feeling himself becoming side-tracked but unable to stop himself. He kept appearing in most of the brutality cases that had been dropped; the same several names cropping up over and over again, usually beside Richard Woodhull’s. Hamilton took notes with increasing urgency, eyeballs itching as he picked up threads in a way that let him know he was onto something.

At 3am, he called Abraham.

A shuffle, and then a groggy voice sounded over the other end. “…Hello?”

“Abe, my man,” Hamilton printed out another couple pages, the end of his pen sticking out his mouth. “You busy?”

“…It’s 3am.”

“Justice never sleeps,” Hamilton chirped happily. “I’ve been following up on some of the stuff you gave me. Really great work here man, I gotta admit. Couldn’t have done better.”

“You couldn’t wait till the morning to thank me?”

“Listen, I’m going out on a bit of a limb here,” Hamilton continued like he hadn’t heard him. “Do you think it’s possible that your dad takes bribes?”

A long pause on the other end while Hamilton drew a highlighter across a page.

“I mean,” said Woodhull slowly. “I thought that was implied.”

“Ok great,” Hamilton clicked the lid back on. “Glad we’re on the same page. He bought anything big recently? A TV or a car…anything that might be difficult to explain on a city magistrate’s salary?”

“We went on vacation to the Maldives over break. He said he won it in a raffle.”

“Oh nice. How was it?”

“Pretty cool. The hotel had a buffet.”

“Food good?”

“Average.”

 “Listen,” said Hamilton again. “You think you might be able to find a bank statement, or something? Follow the money and see where it goes, etcetera?”

“…You’re asking me to shop in my dad?”

Hamilton hesitated, the reality suddenly hitting him of what exactly he was saying.

“Never mind,” he said quickly. “Sorry, it was a stupid thing to ask, forget it-”

“I didn’t say it was a problem,” Woodhull cut across him. “I just wanted to make sure.”

Hamilton’s eyebrows wriggled. “…Are you and your father playing some weird game on a completely different level, or something?”

“Can’t remember that ever being your business.”

“No, fair enough,” Hamilton nodded. “Ok, well. Thanks. Let me know what you find.”

“Will do. Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Yes. Rest easy, soldier!”

“…Thanks.”

The line went quiet. Hamilton put down the phone cheerfully.

“Macbeth one, Hamlet nil,” he shuffled his papers. “I like being Scottish.”

He went back to his laptop.

*

His good mood did not stretch into the next morning. Rushing late into the office, having overslept the three or so hours he had only barely managed to catch, he arrived tired and irritable and deeply resenting Washington’s presence hovering petulantly by the door.

“Traffic?” he raised an eyebrow upon catching him, sheepishly unravelling his scarf. “Or alcohol?”

Hamilton cut his eyes at him in response.

Washington tossed some files onto his desk. “In the future, maybe let me know in advance if you’re going to be out all night drinking. Or don’t come in at all.”

Hamilton drew the files towards him and lowered his bruised face, quietly furious but knowing he’d rather die than tell him the truth.  

Washington retreated into his office, closing the door behind him. Hamilton breathed a sharp sigh of relief, rubbing his exhausted eyes and making a start on the day’s work.

He had only just finished the first item on his list when Washington cracked opened the door again.

“Did you fax or email the attendance note of last week’s conference?” he asked.

Hamilton stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“The attendance note,” Washington repeated impatiently. “I gave you the handwritten copy. You told me you’d have it typed up and sent by Thursday.”

Hamilton’s eyes widened as icy dread flooded through him.

“I…I forgot,” he jabbered, tongue feeling thick and dry in his mouth. “I’m so, so sorry…I’ll do it right now-”

“That,” said Washington, voice steely. “Is really not good enough.”

At once, all of Hamilton’s horrified guilt drained from him, to be replaced by hot, fiery anger.

“Right,” he snapped sarcastically, snatching the attendance note from the ever-growing pile of papers. “What the hell was I thinking, that anything I could have going on could _possibly_ be more important than reiterating to some far-removed board member what he’s already heard, or what his _own_ secretary should have recorded if he couldn’t be bothered to do it himself.”

“I have told you,” Washington replied coldly. “If you cannot manage your responsibilities here on top of your no doubt _exhaustive_ other commitments-”

“-It’s _one_ attendance note,” Hamilton hissed under his breath. “Jesus. I slip up _one goddamn time-”_

 “Your slip ups are becoming a disturbingly regular occurrence,” Washington interrupted him curtly. “You had best mind your method. And your language as well.”

He returned to his office, just stopping short of slamming the door behind him. Hamilton stood up, swearing loud enough for Washington to hear him.

The remaining hours passed with little interference. Hamilton worked quietly and efficiently while Washington remained in his office, emerging infrequently to drop things onto Hamilton’s desk. Hamilton typed up the attendance note and turned his attention to other matters, letting his brain switch off a little while he waited for a load of correspondence to run through the copier. He hadn’t spoken to Laurens since saying goodbye to him after his gig last night. His heart tightened, remembering the way Laurens had squeezed him hard as they parted, protective arms wrapping around him. Hamilton sighed deeply as Laurens’ face in the dim club lighting swam before him, the pain in his eyes as his thumb flit over his nose and jaw. He had been _so_ angry. But he’d reigned it in because Hamilton had asked him to. The thought caused a warm stirring of pleasure, intensifying as his thoughts switched to Laurens’ performance, his voice through the microphone, the smug pricking of his mouth as he’d gazed at Hamilton over the deck…

The door of Washington’s office flew open, and Hamilton jerked up to see his face, fiery with cold fury. A sheet of paper was clutched in his hand.

“What,” he said, voice quiet and steady yet barely suppressing rage beneath. “Is this?”

He held the page up to Hamilton. It was a printed-out email, addressed from Hamilton to Washington. Hamilton was confused for one moment, horror and comprehension dawning as his eyes darted over the first line:

_hey Abe, thanks again for agreeing to that thing! Here’s some of the stuff I found H Gates, if u could look it over and see what u can dig up…_

“Explain yourself,” Washington demanded, shaking the paper in front of Hamilton’s face.

“I,” Hamilton stuttered _Am the stupidest fucking secretary in administrative history._ He took a deep breath, stalling his brain from chastising itself in favour of deciding to just tell the truth. “…It’s for the Curtis trial. I’m looking for dirt on the NYPD, and I think I’ve found a link between them and Horatio Gates buying off brutality cases.”

 _“What?”_ Washington spat out, utterly perplexed. “Why would he…what would he _possibly_ have to gain?”

Hamilton shrugged. “Thinking about going into politics?” he replied. “Smart to cultivate good relationships. Might come in handy when it comes to calling in favours, should he ever find himself in government.”

“Hamilton,” Washington dropped the page, turning his face despairingly into his hands. “What are you _doing?_ Do you even know what you’re getting yourself into? What you risk throwing away when you set on a course like this? Bringing down good, important, _decent_ men, men who could be _good_ for your own career-”

Fury, fiercer than he could remember ever feeling it in a long time, rose in Hamilton before he could suppress it.

 _“Good_ men?” he demanded. _“Decent_ men? Did you even hear what I said? Horatio Gates might be buying off or threatening the victims of brutality cases from seeking justice, and you stand there talking to me about my goddamn career.”

“Someone has to have your best interests at heart,” Washington retorted tersely. “Seeing as you seem so hell-bent on destroying yourself and every opportunity offered you.”

“Thanks,” said Hamilton sarcastically. “But that is _not_ your _goddamn job.”_

“Hamilton!” Washington barked, and Hamilton thought he was going to tell him off for swearing again when he said, “Listen to me. You…you are a _talented boy._ But talent alone is not enough to get you far in this world. You have responsibilities to other people which involve swallowing down your personal feelings and playing by the rules – it comes with the success. I would have thought you’d have learned that by now."

“Seriously?” Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to lecture _me_ on responsibility? When you won’t even release a statement about the racist shit that’s happening on campus, when you refuse to come out in support for Jamal Curtis or fire the assholes on the board who want to keep Drayton on…when you shift all the work for the only institution that could do any good to Lafayette so that if it goes wrong its _his_ problem not yours…you want to lecture me about responsibility?"

"Don't be obtuse, it doesn't become you. I have told you time and time again that the situation is  _difficult_ -"

"Bullshit!" Hamilton yelled. "Excuses! That's all you ever give...you want to be seen as this great, progressive liberal, who's nothing but generous, who's done so much for his little black protegees when really...really you’re such a coward you need an ivory tower to keep you from getting your feet dirty-”

“Don’t you talk to me like that-”

“Don’t talk to _me_ like that!” Hamilton retorted, voice climbing in volume. “I’m not your son! And by the way, neither is Lafayette!”

He grabbed his scarf, hurling it over his neck and yanking on his coat. “You know what? It’s not _my job_ to listen to this.”

“Hamilton!” Washington yelled, but Hamilton was out the door and down the stairs before he could say another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise i am not able to mention Horatio Gates without making the same few pretentious references. sorry about that.
> 
> Just a quick thank you to all you guys who have followed and supported this over the past year! there aren't that many of you (lol) but this is still my favourite thing i've ever written, which means you happy happy few are just that much more important and amazing to me and i have endless gratitude for you letting me think and experiment and put a lot of all my repressed shit on page and then actually? telling me u like it?? Wow. Amazing.
> 
> so anyway, thank you so so much - i wish each and every one of you a happy New Year and a wonderful and fulfilling 2019!!! see you there!!!


	25. Damage Done - Moderat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Split lips cracked and parted, pearly teeth cleft in half

Laurens recognised the loud, abrupt knocks on the door as surely as if the perpetrator had announced his name.

“Hey,” Hamilton charged through it as soon as it was opened. “Thank fuck you’re in, or I would have ran through the streets yelling for you.”

“What happened?” asked Laurens, stepping aside perplexedly as Hamilton threw his coat onto the coach.

“I’ve had the day from _hell,”_ Hamilton replied brusquely. “Just got into a massive fight with Washington.”

“What? What about?”

“Oh…everything,” Hamilton waved dismissively as if it didn’t matter, fooling absolutely no one. “I made a dumb mistake…accidentally sent him something to do with the Curtis trial and it escalated. I ended up calling him out on his flimsy stance on anything racial and his hypocrisy in grooming me and Lafayette, then I left.”

“I…what?” Laurens sputtered, his brain working over-time to keep up with the speed of Hamilton’s words. “You _quit?”_

“Well, I stormed out,” Hamilton answered uncomfortably. “And we left it on a pretty sour note. I sort of yelled at him – told him he was a coward, and that I wasn’t his son and neither was Gilbert…So yeah. Can’t really see us coming back from that.”

“Ok, wait, slow down,” Laurens raised his palms as Hamilton strode over to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water and taking a long gulp. “How…how did this even happen?”

“I told you,” said Hamilton impatiently, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I accidentally sent him an email instead of Ben’s friend, Abe Woodhull on the NYPD…whatever. It’s not important. He was being an asshole even before I made the mistake. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m done with him.”

He set the bottle down on the countertop, his finger slipping off the lid to circulate the rim. Laurens watched it doubtfully, the gears in his head trying to click into position and meeting resistance.

“Alex,” he began uncertainly. “Are you sure about this? Do you not think maybe you should go back…try and make up-?”

“For what?” Hamilton demanded bluntly before Laurens had even got the sentence out. “For the privilege of being poster boy for his personal Outreach program? You think that just because His Benevolence extended his reach for once that I ought to get down on my knees and apologise to a fucking charlatan? Do you even _know_ how many offers I’ve got from people like Green and Knox, how many I _still_ get? You think I _need_ him? No. Fuck that. I’m done defending him. I’m done full stop.”

He took another drink of the water bottle, setting it down rather harder than before. When he looked up he was smiling sunnily, if rather forced, at Laurens.

“Anyway,” he said. “It’s in the past now. Do you have work? I wanna do something, take my mind off it. Can we hang out?”

“Er…sure,” replied Laurens, still stunned but reaching for his laptop. “I’ll have a look and see if there’s anything on Netflix.”

Hamilton beamed. He crossed swiftly from the kitchen into the living room, sliding his arms around Laurens’ shoulders and pulling him into a kiss. Laurens’ eyes fell closed, arms tightening around Hamilton’s waist as he sighed contentedly into his mouth, limbs going slack.

“Mm,” Hamilton murmured, lips quirked as they parted. “You’re the greatest.”

He pecked Laurens’ cheek once more before pulling away. “I’m gonna charge my phone,” he told Laurens over his shoulder, heading for his bedroom. “Find something easy-going. Nothing to do with mass suicide, or the singularity or anything.”

“How about you’ll get what you’re given?” Laurens retorted, switching on his laptop.

There was no response on the other end. Rolling his eyes, Laurens logged into his account and began to skim through the categories. Despite Hamilton’s insistence that he didn’t watch TV he’d spent more time on it than he had; Laurens could tell from the currently displayed Friends season, evidence of yet another binged re-watch.

“What genre are you in the mood for?” Laurens tossed over his shoulder, and when seconds passed with no reply, “Alex?”

The silence had stretched well into the foreboding before Hamilton emerged from Laurens’ bedroom. He was still holding his phone, eyes fixed on the screen. A deep line split through the crease of his brow, casting his face into shadow.

Laurens’ insides wriggled with trepidation at the sight. “Alexander?” he tried again tentatively.

“I just got a text from Aaron,” said Hamilton, voice a dreadful deadpan.

He looked up at Laurens, hands shaking on the phone. His eyes were wide. “John, tell me this isn’t true.”

Laurens’ insides stopped wriggling, freezing cold. He glanced away. “What’s not true.”

“Charles Lee,” Hamilton replied. “Thomas Conway and Jeffrey Amherst…Burr’s saying you went after them. With Lafayette and André.”

Hamilton swallowed and it wasn’t just his hands that were shaking now, but his voice as well. “Tell me it’s not true,” he pleaded.

Laurens didn’t meet his gaze. Hamilton’s face hardened, jaw solidifying into a knife’s edge.

“You fucking _didn’t,”_ he hissed through his teeth.

“Come on,” Laurens said sharply, trying to disguise the squirming in his gut. “What did you expect me to do? Just stand there and let them get away with it-”

“What the FUCK is _wrong_ with you?!” Hamilton shouted, hands flying to his hair. “You just…you went over there and you…you beat them _up??_ Is that what you did, you drafted Gilbert and André as back up and you tracked them down and you beat the shit out of them...And how did you even know it was them? Oh my God.” His eyes widened, pupils dilating twice the size in the moment of realisation. "André...you've been surveying them all this time, haven't you? That's how you knew about the email. All this time, that's what you've been keeping from me-"

“Yeah, so what?” Laurens retaliated, voice rising in volume. “You were doing the same thing with the NYPD. You expect me to just sit passive while you get sent death threats and whatever else, you think you're the only one who can take matters into their own hands? As if I can just brush it off and pretend like you didn’t get beaten to shit, like you didn’t get attacked alone in the middle of the night-”

“Are you dumb?” Hamilton interrupted harshly. “Are you really, honestly this stupid? How the fuck am I supposed to go to the police and report them now if they can say that this happened to them?”

“Oh come on,” Laurens rolled his eyes. “It’s like you said, you didn’t really think the police were going to _do_ anything about it.”

“Well you made sure of that! Now it’s not even an _option.”_

“They were never an option.”

“That was _not_ your call to make!” Hamilton yelled. “This had to be done _by the rules._ Think about it. Three white guys jump an innocent black kid, totally unprovoked. Except now, instead of going through lawful means of justice and coming out the moral victim, black kid seeks vigilante vengeance by hiring three friends to beat them up, two of whom are _also_ black, and all _three_ just happening to be in _the top sector of wealthy individuals on campus._ All of this, mind you, within literal days of a brutality trial.”

Laurens opened his mouth. Closed it again when he realised he hadn’t thought about this.

“Ok, well,” Laurens forced out after a long time, cheeks burning with humiliation. “Maybe I…maybe I didn’t think about that-”

 _“No you fucking didn’t!”_ Hamilton shouted. “You _didn’t_ think about that because all _you_ thought about was how you were going to force this situation into being one that immediately concerns you!”

 _“How_ does it not concern me?” Laurens demanded. “I’m dating you, aren’t I?”

“That doesn’t mean it was an attack on you! Like it’s some kind of personal slight, like it’s your honour at stake. You ride in there like fucking Lancelot, like it’s your _right_ and I’m some damsel in need of defending. I already told you, I am _not the girl in this relationship, John._ ”

“Oh my God,” Laurens groans, dropping his head back onto his shoulders. “Is _that_ what this is about?”

“No, this is about you getting so caught up in your desire for agency because of what the police did to you, and your fear that being gay is somehow…emasculating…or whatever…that you overcompensate by punching Charles Lee at every opportunity.”

“Funny,” Laurens snarled cuttingly, face flushing red at Hamilton’s words. “I don’t remember you complaining nearly so much the first time I punched Charles Lee on your behalf.”

“You know what?” Hamilton snapped. “It isn’t even about that. It’s about black people working their _asses_ off to show that we’re not just some impulsive, dumb, violent delinquents who solve problems through crime and aggression, when one of them who _already got let off charges_ is assured enough of his privilege to go and do just that.”

Laurens deflated instantly, the reality of his actions finally settling in. Hamilton was breathing heavily, his shoulders rising and falling with each tug of his chest. His cheeks were red and shining with fury.

Laurens wiped a feeble hand over his face. “What do you want me to say, Alexander?” he said at last, defeated.

For a long time, Hamilton didn’t reply. His eyes were averted, chin pointing sharply away. He shook his head tersely.

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this angry. I can’t…I don’t want to be around you, right now.”

He grabbed his coat off the couch and made for the door.

“Tell Lafayette I don’t want to speak to him,” were his last words before he slammed it shut behind him.

*

Two days passed. Hamilton, true to his word, holed himself up and away from Laurens and Lafayette, burying himself in work so as to not have to see them. Laurens, furiously embarrassed with himself yet too proud to make amends was perfectly happy to give Hamilton space, retreating into his own thorny reticence and snapping when any of the others tried to break it down. Lafayette, however, persisted despite the warning, marching over to Hamilton’s dorm and after having the door slammed in his face leaving increasingly upset voice messages. When it became transparent this was doing more harm than good he resolved to look for sympathy elsewhere, finally deciding to visit Washington.

Laurens had bluntly outlined Hamilton and Washington’s falling out to Lafayette, in the context of their argument. Lafayette didn’t fully understand the details of what had happened, but he was cheered by the fact that someone other than the two of them had fallen out of Hamilton’s good books. He turned up at Washington’s intending to unload the burden of his troubles; however, he was disappointed to find that he was almost as brooding and withdrawn as Laurens.

“I’m sorry Lafayette,” Washington sighed, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with his sweater. “Perhaps it was a mistake to do tonight. I’m tired. I have been very busy.”

“Not to worry,” Lafayette stretched out his legs miserably in the living room’s most comfortable armchair. “I quite understand. You have a lot going on.”

Washington nodded distractedly, rubbing his eyes. He _looked_ tired, older and haggard with deep lines running from his mouth and dark circles under his eyes. Lafayette felt something twinge in his gut. He didn’t like to see him like that, so shockingly run-down and mortal. Better to have him young always, blood running strong with the ageless vigour of vitality.

“It’s the board,” he confessed heavily after some time. “Perhaps I…it’s possible I was hubristic in dismissing your concerns so quickly. I haven’t had to face such a mutinous ship since I was made president.”

“Nonsense!” Lafayette answered staunchly. “Of course you were right – you have fought much harder battles before. It is nothing to take seriously.”

Washington gave him a doleful smile. “I wish that were so,” he replied. “But rumours abound, I’ll be facing a no-confidence vote within the month.” He glanced over his shoulder, presumably checking whether Martha was in earshot before lowering his voice. “The wolves are at my door _,_ Lafayette.”

The words, hushed in their undertone as they were, sent a shiver of cold running through him. Still, he maintained firmly: “It is just the atmosphere of the times. A month from now it will all have blown over.”

“That’s just the thing,” Washington leaned back with another sigh. “No one can say I haven’t had my share of bad luck with…everything that’s gone on recently. But if one more incident comes to light…if the board see that I can’t stop these terrible things from happening then-”

He broke off, and for one horrible moment Lafayette thought he was going to put his head in his hands. But instead he exhaled sharply, turning his head to look out the window.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Washington continued thoughtfully. “If these people aren’t…somehow behind all this. If maybe the reasons these things keep happening is because they _want_ them to happen…to show that the race situation is out of my hands…to show that I’m losing control.”

Lafayette said nothing. Inside his head, however, was alight with the fluorescent glow of the bowling alley, the words ricocheting off the walls of his skull like pins as he remembered Thomas Conway gasping them out, trapped beneath Lafayette’s foot.

_It was our dads. We’re just doing what we’re told._

Then Washington smiled, bringing him back to earth. “Never mind,” he said, voice a twisting combination of bright and sad. “I’m just being paranoid.”

Lafayette tried to force a smile back, taking a sip of his tea to hide the feeble effort. He was not sorry for the distraction when Martha appeared in the doorway.

“George,” she said, hovering by the post, her voice heavy with exasperation. “Your toy is here.”

“Aha!” exclaimed Washington, slapping his thighs and immediately getting to his feet with new gusto. “Now _this_ will be worth the visit! Come Lafayette, you must have a look at this.”

Bemused and curious, Lafayette set his cup aside and dutifully followed Washington down the hall and into his study where two deliverymen were unloading a long cardboard box onto his desk.

“Thank you, gentlemen, I’ll take it from here,” Washington told them courteously, waiting for them to nod out before taking a box cutter and running it along the edge. “Feast your eyes on this.”

The box lid flipped open and a gasp was wrenched from Lafayette’s chest.

“General Washington’s dress sword,” Washington said proudly, gripping it by the silver hilt and laying it out admiringly. “1767.”

Lafayette said nothing, his eyes and brain needing a second to adjust. The sword lay, bright and dazzling in the light as if inlaid with diamonds. Seeing his gobsmacked expression, Washington chuckled.

“I can’t tell you what a time I had trying to get hold of this,” he said, chest fit to burst. He lowered his voice, glancing around once again for Martha before winking at Lafayette. “Martha thinks it’s a replica. But I’m sure I don’t have to tell _you_ what I paid for it.”

He tapped the side of his nose and chortled, as if at a private joke. Lafayette swallowed. Found that his throat came away dry.

*

“Help help help help help help,” Lafayette chanted down the phone so frantically he tripped over his own feet in his haste to put distance between himself and Washington’s house.

“…Lafayette?”

“No, Timothée Chalamet,” Lafayette snarled. “Who the fuck do you think it is?”

“New phone, sorry,” Burr replied smoothly. “And for a moment you sounded like Alexander.”

 “Aha!” Lafayette exclaimed angrily. “I do not think you should speak to me about him, considering _you_ are the reason he is not speaking to _me.”_

 “I’m sorry,” said Burr, and in his defence he did sound apologetic. “But we have a reciprocal flow of information exchange going at the moment. I could hardly let him hear it from someone else, and fail to uphold my end.”

“Oh, you tell each other secrets,” Lafayette said sarcastically. “Like Sleepover Club.”

“Actually…it’s more like Mutually-Assured Destruction…club.”

“Aaron Burr,” Lafayette cut him off, voice serious and panicky in a way that it very rarely was. “I need you to listen to me when I tell you I am afraid that I have discovered something very, very bad.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone, during which Lafayette took a wrong turn and had to retrace his steps.

“Okaaay,” said Burr slowly. “What is it you’ve found?”

“I haven’t _found_ anything,” Lafayette corrected him emphatically. “I am _afraid_ that what I _think_ I have found, although I know that it is nothing, will prove upon further inspection to be something, and furthermore that that something is, in fact, a something very, very bad.”

“Got you. And what is it you’re afraid you _think_ you’ve found?”

Lafayette stopped dead in the middle of the street in his hesitation, not wanting to say it out loud.

“I…” he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as if the uttered syllable had been something dirty. “That Washington has been embezzling university funds.”

The silence on the other end of the phone stretched for even longer. Lafayette turned his face up towards the sky. The stars visible behind the heavy New York fog blinked back callously, indifferent to the turmoil that had been whirling around his head ever since he had left the Washingtons’. He drew out a shaky breath. Closed his eyes..

“You think that Washington’s been embezzling?” Burr said after what felt like a lifetime.

“No!” said Lafayette, so fiercely that a man in the house behind him glanced out his window. “But I…well…the last time I went round for dinner he had just bought a new car, a very expensive one. And tonight he has just shown me a sword belonging to _George Washington!_ _General_ George Washington! Martha thinks that it is a replica but he assured me it was genuine. The fact that he has lied to her is cause for concern enough – George is normally a man of impeccable honesty. I was so unsettled that halfway through dinner I excused myself to go to the bathroom, but instead I went into his study and I-” here Lafayette broke off and swallowed, ashamed to admit even to himself what he had done. “I couldn’t _help_ but see what looked like evidence of a separate private account, recording the flow of…vast sums.”

There was no reply on the other end, so Lafayette steamrollered ahead.

“I know that it is not what it looks like,” he continued passionately. “I know that there is an innocent, straightforward explanation. I am sure of it. But what I am afraid of is that this is what his enemies have discovered, _this_ is what Lee and Conway are using to supplant him. They think they have their hands on something dirty and they will twist and manipulate it into making Washington into some kind of…of…”

He broke off again, unable to even bring to existence any such word in connection with Washington without feeling like he was going to choke.

“I am worried,” Lafayette said again, eyeballs pricking as he did so. “I am worried that they will paint him to be a fraud and a criminal and I’m scared for him, and I’m so, _so_ confused-”

“Alright,” Burr’s voice cut across him at last, strangely comforting in its sharpness. “Alright, calm down. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here. Odds are you’re right, and this is something totally innocuous which can all be cleared up in an instant. But if Washington’s enemies do have some kind of deeming, or stake in this, then I think there’s a way we can find out.”

“How?” asked Lafayette, desperately.

Even over the phone, Lafayette could sense his grim smile on the other end of the receiver.

“By engaging a mutual friend,” he replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for how long this took to get out :( we are winding down to a close so sould be more frequent from here on out


	26. The State of Massachusetts - Dropkick Murphys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I suppose you've been a victim, I suspect you may have lied

Jefferson was stalking Hamilton’s Instagram when he got a call from Aaron Burr.

“Stanley, my man-ly,” he answered, one hand on the phone while with the other he continued scrolling. “What’s up?”

He paused over a picture where Hamilton was looking particularly obnoxious, frowning both at the pun-crammed caption and at Burr’s rushed reply.

“Naw, I’m not doing anything,” he replied, a little perplexed at the urgency. “Why? You got more art needs valuing? Can’t it wait till morning?”

There was a flurry of frantic conversation on the other end, followed by Burr telling whoever it was to hush. Confused and impatient, Jefferson hung up.

A few minutes later there was a knock on the door. Muttering disgruntledly, Jefferson pulled his burgundy dressing gown tighter around his waist and went to answer it, eyes widening in surprise upon seeing Burr flanked by a faintly hysterical Lafayette.

“Evening, ya’ll,” he said pleasantly once the shock had subsided.

“Good evening,” replied Burr. “May we come in?”

“I daresay you might as well,” Jefferson frowned, stepping aside to let them pass.

Burr swept in, his whirling black coat giving him the appearance of some welcomed spirit. Lafayette, looking anxious, hurried in rather less elegantly. His eyes flitted to Jefferson’s bared laptop screen.

“Is that the art you were valuing?” he asked innocently.

Jefferson smiled waspishly. “Just getting caught up,” he replied, gesturing to the canvases stacked in the corner of the room. “It’s a little hobby I’m dabbling in.”

“Do you get a lot of business?”

“Mostly amateurs. Aaron here has given me most of the work so far.”

Lafayette looked at Burr in surprise. “You deal?”

Burr shrugged. “Hamilton and I were thinking about establishing a side-business selling student art to collectors overseas.”

“Is that ethical?”

“Sure.”

“It doesn’t sound ethical.”

“It’s about as ethical as the pyramid scheme we set up in first year.”

“So not…ethical…at all, then.”

Jefferson cleared his throat loudly, turning to snap shut the lid of his laptop.

“Gentlemen,” he said, turning back round and spreading his hands in welcome, fixing on his most charming smile. “How can I be of service?”

“The chat that targeted Alexander,” Lafayette said immediately, a note of rage creeping into his voice. “It is led by Charles Lee and Thomas Conway. Friends of yours. Did you know about that?”

There was silence while Jefferson’s eyes flitted haltingly from Lafayette’s demanding face to Burr’s impassive one. He lifted his hands slowly, defensively.

“First of all,” he said in a voice of reasoned calm. “I had _nothing_ to do with the attack on Hamil-”

_“Did you know?”_

“Not until recently,” Jefferson replied. “I found out about the chatroom a couple of weeks ago. I questioned Charles – he assured me that nothing was gonna happen, that it was purely strategical. Hamilton wasn’t even the real target. I’ll admit, I didn’t think it went much beyond bitching. I let it lie.”

“Then who was the target?” demanded Burr.

“It’s Washington,” said Lafayette, voice climbing. “Isn’t it?”

Jefferson inclined his head. “Certain members of the board gave their sons…instructions,” he said carefully. “Which, apparently some took more literally than others.”

“You mean they told them to stir the pot,” Burr nodded comprehendingly. “Try to start a race war on campus.”

“Washington’s hanging thin as it is,” confirmed Jefferson. “One more incident like Dray in the media and they’ll be clamouring for his removal. Hamilton’s an easy target, he’s a big name on campus, he’s already been in the news. I know Lee and Conway were told to provoke him, try and whip up people with a grievance. I guess they took it to the next level.”

“Lee and Conway’s fathers told them to cause trouble, and target Alexander just to make things difficult for Washington?” Lafayette wrinkled his nose, struggling to keep all of this in his head. “But that does not make sense. Even if there _was_ a race war, it is no guarantee Washington would be removed.”

“Yeah, well,” Jefferson shrugged. “By the sounds of it, they had something else up their sleeve that meant he wouldn’t have stood a chance. I didn’t ask,” he added, in response to the silent question.

Lafayette and Burr exchanged a look.

“Alright,” Burr said carefully. “So all of this to get rid of Washington. And replace him with…who, exactly? They must have an alternative. What’s the end game here?”

Jefferson shrugged. “Beats me,” he replied indifferently. “Look. I really have told you all I know. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

He held out his hand towards the door, politely yet unambiguously inviting them to leave. Burr looked at Lafayette. He was staring hard-faced at Jefferson, a deep line between his brows.

“You knew about the chatroom,” he said. “That there were people who hated Alexander, who maybe wanted to hurt him. And you let it lie.”

Jefferson’s expression weakened, shoulders sagging a little as he spread his palms. “The moment I found out what they’d done I broke contact with them,” he said. “I haven’t spoken to them since. Believe me, Lafayette. I had nothing to do with this.”

“You still knew. You knew he might get hurt, and you still did nothing.”

Jefferson didn’t reply. Lafayette shook his head, disgust and exhaustion welling up inside him.

“Goodnight Thomas,” he said curtly, walking over to the door and out the apartment. He was down the stairs before Jefferson had a chance to call him back.

*

“I’m right to be mad at him,” Hamilton spoke into the phone. “Tell me I’m right to be mad.”

“You’re right to be mad.”

“I know! Thank you! I know I am!”

“But like,” Hamilton imagined Angelica laying on her back, upside down with her feet halfway while she painted her nails, because Angelica was a weirdo. “How _long_ are you gonna be mad?”

“A while. I don’t know. I’m still pretty furious.”

“Oh, okay.”

“What?” asked Hamilton suspiciously, disliking her tone.

“Maybe you should think about quitting sooner.”

“Why?” Hamilton demanded. “He did something really bad!”

“Well, yeah.”

“But?”

“I mean…it was also pretty romantic.”

Hamilton huffed a stray curl out his face, glaring darkly at the ceiling. “So what?” he challenged. “Romance is no excuse for stupidity. Also, it wasn’t romantic. It was possessive and jealous.”

“Okay, but it was a kind of predictable and reasonable reaction to someone you love getting badly assaulted. Are you seriously saying you wouldn’t have done the same thing?”

 _“Yes,”_ Hamilton stated emphatically. _“I_ would have responded with a witty and well-researched news article to court right wing backlash in an effort to undermine the assaulters’ media presence.”

“…Ok, well maybe John isn’t as smart as you.”

“Are you calling my boyfriend dumb?”

“Pretty sure that was you.”

Hamilton groaned, rubbing his hand over his face. “You’re right,” he said at last. “I shouldn’t have called him dumb. He’s really sensitive about that. For reasons.”

“The reasons being…no one likes to be called dumb?”

“You can’t tell me it was a legitimate reaction,” Hamilton told her. “It was a bullshit psychopath reaction. _You_ wouldn’t have done it.”

“I wouldn’t, but Eliza would.”

“What? Fuck off, that’s not true.”

“Hey, Liz?” Angelica’s voice dropped slightly in volume as she broke away from the phone. “What would you have done if you discovered the names of the people who beat up Alex? If you were a guy, or could take someone twice your size and weight?”

“Oh! Um…I guess, I would have gone after them with a bat and buried them in the dirt.”

“See?” Angelica returned to the phone.

“You’re a _Christian,”_ said Hamilton aghast, loud enough for Eliza to hear.

“Not right then I wouldn’t be.”

Over on his side table, Hamilton’s other phone buzzed. He frowned at it bemusedly, returning to his conversation.

“I’m gonna have to go. Burr’s calling me.”

“Ugh. Is this about that exploiting student art business thing? You know that’s not ethical. I’m not sure if it’s even legal.”

“Sure it’s legal. And very ethical.”

“Then why do you have a second _phone?”_

“I’m going through a tunnel,” Hamilton told her. “Gonna have to call you back.”

He hung up, reaching for the Nokia.

“Yo.”

“Question,” Burr’s voice was abrupt on the other end. “Are you able to access Washington’s office?”

Hamilton blinked, momentarily taken aback by his urgency. “Uh, I’d be a kind of shitty assistant if I wasn’t,” he answered perplexedly. “I still gotta return my key since I quit-slash-got-fired. Why?”

“Would you be able to meet me there in fifteen? It’s urgent.”

“I guess,” said Hamilton uncomfortably, glancing at the time. “It’s late though…dude, what’s this about?”

“I don’t want to explain on the phone.”

“God, you sound like Tallmadge,” Hamilton rolled his eyes. “Okay fine, fine. Be creepy and evasive. I’ll be there.”

The phone went silent. Hamilton kissed his teeth, taking a second to rue his curiosity endlessly getting the better of him before pulling on his shoes.

*

Hamilton took the steps up to Washington’s office two at a time, pausing on the last when he saw who else was stood outside the door.

“What? Come on. No.”

“Hamilton,” said Burr, stepping warningly in front of Lafayette. “It’s fine.”

“It is _not_ fine!” Hamilton spat, eyes blazing as he glared furiously at Lafayette. “What is this, an ambush? Did you set me up trying to bond outside George’s office? What a weird fucking way to try and make up.”

“I am not trying to make up,” Lafayette tilted his chin with dignity. “I know that you do not want to talk to me and I respect that.”

“You’re damn right I don’t want to talk to you, I don’t even want to be _around_ you, Burr, what the hell is this?”

“Easy, Hamilton.”

“No! Stop that! I want to know what’s going and I want to know _now_ before I walk right back down those stairs -”

“Lafayette thinks Washington’s embezzling funds.”

Hamilton broke off, staggered. He took a step back.

Lafayette looked furiously at Burr. _“No_ I _don’t.”_

“Sorry,” Burr amended boredly. “Lafayette thinks _Lee and Conway_ think Washington’s embezzling funds, and wants to find out the truth before the media does. Either way, we need to get into his office.”

“Are you serious?” Hamilton’s eyebrow quirked doubtfully. “I mean, I kind of want it to be true because it would be hilarious. But you’re a hundred percent barking up the wrong tree here.”

 _“I_ know that,” Lafayette rolled his eyes impatiently. “There is an innocent explanation. I just want to know what it is.”

 _“Why_ do you think I’m now talking to you?” snapped Hamilton.

“Do you have the keys,” Burr cut across Lafayette before he could open his mouth to retort.

Hamilton fished the keys from his pocket and went to unlock the door, sending a fuming glance at the both of them over the shoulder.

“I’m only doing this because I’m too curious for my own good,” he told Burr. “And you’re a bastard for taking advantage of that particular personality flaw.”

The door swung open. Hamilton stepped aside, gesturing with a heavily ironic flourish for them to step inside. Immediately Lafayette fell on the desk, yanking open drawers and examing every piece of paper his fingers touched – meanwhile Burr wandered around aimlessly, looking a little lost now that he was actually inside. Hamilton kissed his teeth, striding across the room to the filing cabinet.

“Christ’s sake, you don’t even know what you’re looking for,” he muttered under his breath, opening one of the cabinets and jerking his head. “Here, start with these. It’s all the confidential crap I’m not supposed to look at.”

He whacked a file of papers on the desk in front of Lafayette, who began rifling through them at once. Raising his eyes to the heavens, Hamilton turned back to Burr.

“This is ridiculous, by the way,” he told him.

“Never said it wasn’t.”

“God knows Washington’s no angel. But seriously, embezzlement? We talking about the same guy here?”

“It’s not _my_ idea.”

Hamilton grunted non-committally. He looked back at Lafayette, shredding through the pages which such vigour they looked like they might rip and letting them flutter haphazardly across the desk.

“Hey,” Hamilton snapped at him, retrieving the discarded papers. “You’re undoing hours of work here, at least put them back in the order you found-”

He broke off. Burr and Lafayette looked at him quizzically. “What?”

Hamilton shook his head slowly, the papers still clutched in his hand. He sunk down into the nearest chair, still staring at it.

 _“What?”_ Lafayette insisted as Burr removed the papers from the grip of Hamilton’s shaking fingers.

The front document was the page that had fallen out of the expenses weeks ago, the one Hamilton had almost shredded. He hadn’t looked at it properly then. Washington had made sure of that. It had been innocuous on its own, but combined with the other pages a fuller picture was suddenly clearer.

“There’s another account,” said Burr. “And money flowing into it, regularly. The same as what you saw, Lafayette.”

“The numbers add up from the expenses,” Hamilton swallowed. “He’s padding his account. I can’t believe this.”

“No!” Lafayette’s voice leapt in pitch, tears threatening to break the surface. “It’s not true! Someone has planted this…someone is _framing_ him-”

“Lafayette,” Burr put a hand on his arm.

“I can’t believe this,” Hamilton rabbited blankly. “I can’t believe this.”

Burr and Lafayette looked at him. Despite what he had said, he did not look as though he found the thought of Washington’s embezzling hilarious. His face was white, his eyes stretched wide with shock and confusion as a hundred more different emotions flitted across his face.

The sound of the door handle being turned jolted them all out their paralysis. Hamilton jumped to his feet, but before he had a chance to disguise their activities the door was being opened.

Washington’s eyes fell on Hamilton first. His brow worked confusedly, as if trying to remember if he was supposed to be there. “Hamilton?” he said. It was then he noticed Burr and Lafayette. “What’s going on? What in God’s name are you doing in my office?”

In the space it took Hamilton to think up an excuse, Lafayette was already flying at him.

 _“What is this?”_ he demanded, the tears having broken forth and were now sticking on his cheeks. _“_ Explain…you must…what _is_ this?”

“Lafayette, what-” Washington stuttered, bewildered.

Hamilton recovered quickly, straightening up and assuming a steely cool as he addressed Washington. “I should have picked up on it when you bought that Cobra,” he stated. “John was right. My mental capacity _does_ go to complete shit whenever a car’s involved.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Washington, still staring at the distraught Lafayette. “Hamilton, explain yourself-”

“Actually,” said Hamilton, crossing his arms over his chest. “You know what, it had nothing to do with the car. I was less blinded by that then I was by you.”

He yanked the document out of Burr’s grip, thrusting it unceremoniously at Washington.

“I’ve thought you were a lot of things,” he said. “A coward, sometimes. A hypocrite, yes. But I never thought of you as a criminal. I never thought of you as anything less than fundamentally good.” He laughed hollowly, a horrible, bitter sound. “Just goes to show. Fa– adults will continually disappoint you.”

Even though he’d said ‘adults’, it sounded to Lafayette for a moment that he’d intended to say something else. He didn’t think anyone else had noticed though, as they were all too fixed on Washington staring at the pages in his hands.

 “We know you’ve been padding your account,” Burr provided when no one had spoken for a long time. “Possibly even embezzling funds from the school. That carries a three year sentence…maybe even five. For our part, what we need to decide is what we do with this information.”

“Tell me it is not true,” Lafayette pleaded. “Please George…say it is a misunderstanding…a mistake...”

“It’s a misunderstanding,” Washington replied quietly.

Hamilton gave his loud, unpleasant laugh again. “Right, ok,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I know I won’t be winning any awards for best sec any time soon, seeing as this flew right under my nose. But I’m still competent enough to know what numbers I’m looking at. Also, _don’t_ call him George, what the fuck, he’s a bank robber.”

“It’s a misunderstanding,” Washington repeated heavily. “You’re a very good secretary, Alexander, and I don’t doubt that you know your numbers. But as good as you are, I’m afraid this time it really isn’t what it looks like.”

His voice was incredibly heavy. Despite his words, he did not sound like he had secured a victory. He sounded like someone had died. It was this heaviness, this reluctance to impart the truth, that gave Hamilton pause.

“Here,” Washington moved closer so Hamilton could see, flipping to a column in the document and pointing it out for him. “What you have correctly discerned is that this is my private expense account. And yes, it does look as though it covers rather more than it should. The reason for that is because I decided to forgo my salary this year in an attempt to cut costs. The board agreed that for this year alone, I should be paid only in expenses.”

There was another long silence as Hamilton stared at the balance sheet.

“But,” his mouth worked as the cogs in his head failed to slip into gear. “I _know_ what a presidential salary should look like. This exceeds it by nearly half a million dollars.”

Washington drew a heavy sigh. “Yes, well,” he rubbed his eyes tiredly, ashamedly. “That would be a due to my…alternate income.”

Hamilton let out a triumphant noise while Lafayette looked stricken. “There you have it!” he declared. “So you _have_ been embezzling!”

“I have _not_ been embezzling,” Washington stated emphatically. “All the money pronounced here is my own. The source of my income results from a private side project, which has nothing to do with this university.”

“Cut to the chase, please sir,” Burr interrupted boredly. “Don’t beat around the bush. Where’s the money from? We haven’t got all night.”

“A lot of clichés there, Burr,” Hamilton muttered. “Might wanna tone it down. This isn’t _True Romance.”_

“I embarked on…a business venture,” Washington said slowly. “It has proved particularly lucrative, beyond my best ambitions. It’s all perfectly legitimate, however the somewhat…controversial…nature of the product necessitates its secrecy.”

“What is the product?” Lafayette’s voice was hushed, thinking he had an idea but not wanting it to be true.

Washington looked him in the eye. “Cannabis.”

The silence that followed was longer than any that had yet occurred.

Finally, it was broken by Burr. “Cannabis,” he repeated slowly. “As in…marijuana, cannabis? As in, pot?”

“You’re a _drug dealer,”_ Lafayette squeaked out in disbelief.

“I am not a dealer,” Washington snapped. “I am a grower and distributor to licensed companies within legalised states. The plantation is in Massachusetts. There is nothing illegal, or illicit about it. Of course, other laws are not so liberal nor minds so flexible – including those of many here in our own state of New York.”

Hamilton exploded with laughter.

“Oh my God,” he wheezed, grabbing the desk for support. “Oh my God…this is…this is better than I’d ever even imagined…you’re not _embezzling,_ you’re a fucking _drug dealer…_ oh my _God-”_

“I am not a drug dealer!” Washington persisted.

“Dude, you are so, _so_ a drug dealer. Just because you’re white and educated and middle-class and only distribute to companies who _exploit_ the black market without actually getting them in on the _profits_ does not make you not a drug dealer.”

“Call me what you want,” said Washington impatiently. “It’s all legal.”

“Legal shmegal! You’re a drug dealer! My boss sells _pot!”_

“Quiet,” Burr snapped at him, completely in vain as Hamilton descended into another fit of wheezing.

Washington’s face however had collapsed. He sank into a chair, looking pale and defeated. “No, he’s right,” he said wearily. “The technicalities are entirely irrelevant. I’ve been using my president’s account to disguise the true source of economy, which is in itself a fireable offence. It was a foolish, stupid, selfish endeavour which I should never have been a part of. If anyone from the board found out about this, it’d mean the end. I’d be completely done for.”

“Lee and Conway already know something’s up,” Burr told him. “They might have leapt to the same conclusion as us, or they could know more. Either way they’re biding their time, waiting for their chance to unleash what they have.”

“Is there anyone else who could know about this?” Hamilton recovered, still hiccoughing slightly. “Anyway they might have found out?”

Washington nodded. “Jacques Prevost,” he replied glumly. “He was at one point looking to get in on the business. I thought perhaps he might be a potential investor.”

Hamilton and Burr exchanged a look.

“Right,” Hamilton breathed out through his nose. “Looks like things really are falling into place. Guess we know where we’re headed next.”

Washington lifted his head from his hands to stare at him confusedly. “Next?” he echoed stupidly.

Hamilton raised an eyebrow coolly. “You don’t think you can possibly get through this quagmire of shit on your own?” he challenged. “You’ve done your part getting into this mess. Now it’s my job to clear it up. As always.”

“But…why?” Washington asked, perplexed. “Why would you risk implicating yourself in this for my sake?”

“Because anyone Lee and Conway want to put in instead of you can only be worse,” Hamilton replied bluntly. “I am not about to let the Drayton faction take over this school. There’s bigger things at stake than your reputation here. Minorities on this campus don’t deserve to suffer for your ambitions.”

He picked up his keys, shoving them in his pocket before striding over to the door and jerking at Burr and Lafayette to follow suit.

“I’ll fix this for you,” he told Washington, holding the door open. “And one day, when you’re retired with enough free time and money to think about going into politics, you’ll remember that I did.” He smiled in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Besides. I am your right-hand man, after all.”

He left after Burr, letting the door swing. Only Lafayette lagged behind, so that he and Washington were alone in the office. He was looking at his feet. It was very hard to look anywhere else.

“Gilbert,” Washington pleaded.

Lafayette risked a glance up. Washington had never looked more sorry than he did at that moment. Somehow, it only made his heart clench all the tighter.

“I have to go,” Lafayette mumbled.

He turned his gaze away, hurrying out of the office without a second glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like my politics are more obvious here than in maybe any other chapter. Wealthy man accused of embezzlement/evasion = very bad. Wealthy man accused of laundering/weed distribution = very very funny
> 
> prepare for more disheartening father/son relationships next chapter


	27. Nothing Can Stop Us Now - Saint Etienne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and now ladies and gentlemen, what you've been waiting for

The morning had not been kind to Jacques Prevost. An appointment with a wealthy and surprisingly plausible candidate for political office had fallen through, plummeting all likelihood of a partnership. Prevost wouldn’t have minded so much, except that scandal-free candidates with clean backgrounds were becoming increasingly difficult to come by in this current climate. It seemed everyone these days had said something “offensive” or “un-PC” or “the N-word on television”. Or at the very least, had an _opinion._ It was getting harder to find characters of the old stock, who waved for the camera and kept their cards to their chest. Talked less. Smiled more. Cost less money when their chances of election inevitably collapsed.

On top of that, he’d been bombarded with a flood of emails from the guys upstairs, asking for his immediate attention on issues that honestly, his twenty-two-year old intern would be better placed to sort out. He’d been working since nine trying to put out fires that kept springing up like the heads of a hydra. Instead of taking his usual lunch break at the Nova, he’d had to make do with a Ploughman’s sandwich from the lobby. There had been no way near enough relish.

To cap it off, Theodosia was still being intransigent. She had gone back to using her maiden-name in public, even if he’d succeeded in preventing her from changing it legally. He’d been right to merge their accounts under a sole name from the beginning, he saw that now. Of course, there had been no way of foretelling what a shitshow things would turn out, but he’d known she was stubborn when he married her. Thank God for forward planning.

There was a knock on the door. Prevost quickly clicked off the website he’d been looking at and resettled his tie. “Yes?”

The boy, Aaron Burr, opened the door cautiously. “Hello sir,” he greeted him. “You said now might be an alright time to talk?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Prevost had entirely forgotten Burr had asked to speak to him earlier. Probably because he was normally so damn quiet. “Come on in.”

Burr pushed the door open wider, waving to an as yet invisible companion. Prevost leaned forward in his chair, frowning as another young man came into view. Black, like Burr, but lighter. Half-caste, or whatever the term was. He had tight-curled, foppish hair, rather too long at the back to be decent. Like a punk rocker or something.

“Good morning,” Prevost glanced at Burr questioningly. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced?”

“Alexander Hamilton,” the boy outstretched his hand promptly. “Good to meet you.”

Of course he fucking was. Despite the fact Prevost had never seen him before, the kid’s portrait was suddenly all-too recognisable from description. “Likewise, I’m sure,” Prevost shook Hamilton’s hand, still looking uncertainly at Burr. “Aaron, I’m sure I must have mentioned to you my protocol on bringing unscheduled visitors into my office?”

“My apologies sir,” Burr replied smoothly, entirely unruffled. “But this really is an urgent matter. Forgive the presumption, but I thought you’d want it dealt with as soon as possible.”

“Well,” Prevost frowned, caught off guard. “If that’s the case…” He was about to tell him to close the door when he realised Hamilton had already done so.

Hamilton looked around the space appraisingly, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his blazer. “Nice office,” he commented casually.

“Thank you,” replied Prevost stiffly.

“Great view. That St Patrick’s over there?”

“How is it I can help you?” Prevost asked, impatient and disliking the way the boy’s gaze lingered on his more expensive possessions.

“Hamilton and I came across some interesting information recently,” Burr began. “We thought it might be in our best interests to share it with you.”

“Oh?” Prevost raised an eyebrow, intrigued both at Burr’s words and the measuring way he said them. “And to what might this information be pertaining?”

“President Washington, sir,” Burr answered.

Prevost was quiet for a moment, weighing the impact of this. Burr’s face was impassive, entirely unreadable. Hamilton was still looking out the window, counting landmarks.

“Really,” said Prevost, folding his hands together and trying to sound curious rather than unnerved. “Do go on.”

 “We think certain members of the board might be seeking to replace him,” Burr continued. “And that their motivations for doing so might be justified by certain unscrupulous activity. I wouldn’t have bothered concerning you with this, except that we…that is, Mr Hamilton and I…have reason to believe it implicates you.”

“Is that right?” Prevost laughed. “Oh dear, what an inconvenience! And what is this reasoning?”

“The recent business endeavour Washington brought up with you,” Burr replied.

The statement was followed with silence. Hamilton finally tore his gaze away from Midtown Manhattan in order to watch Prevost, his gaze level and unblinking. Prevost swallowed and found it unstuck slowly from his throat. He lowered his hands slowly so they wouldn’t betray him by shaking.

Finally, Prevost turned his head an infinitesimal fraction. “What exactly are you getting at?” he asked, eyes narrow. “I don’t know about any business endeavour.”

“We have it from the horse’s mouth,” Hamilton spoke up. “Don’t worry about sticking up for Washington. It’s his authority we’re here on.”

“If you’ve heard about it from Washington, then you’ll also know that I have placed no stake in the business.”

“Sure,” Burr conceded. “Convenient timing for you to withdraw, but I guess you got what you needed out of him. Or rather, what Lee and Conway needed to run with embezzlement charges. And I guess you made up the financial loss through accepting various other proposals. The Draytons must have deep pockets.”

“What in the-” Prevost blustered, face turning red. “What kind of…how dare you…you have no proof-”

“Uh, sorry to disappoint,” Hamilton winced apologetically. “But, yeah. We do. Kind of happens when you hire a computer wizard Machiavel under duress.”

Prevost’s gaze switched to stare, wide-eyed, at Burr who’s face remained impassive as comprehension dawned.

“You sonofabitch,” he hissed. “You sold me _out?_ After everything I did for you?”

“You offered him a job in exchange for betraying his friends and community,” Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “And you _really_ didn’t see ‘Stabby McBackstabber’ written across his face in block capitals?”

“But _why?”_ Prevost demanded, fury and disbelief compounding his words. “All this time…all the pretence…you’re telling me it was all for _Washington_ , or to get back at the Drayton kid? What the hell are you dragging me in this for, what have I ever done except give you a chance?”

“You got me in the room I needed to be,” Burr said quietly. “My thanks for that. As to why…I think you know that.”

Another silence followed as Prevost and Burr looked at each other, the latter’s eyes hard and burning like coal. Eventually, Prevost wrenched away his gaze. His voice was small when he spoke. “What is it you want?”

“Who are Lee and Conway planning to replace Washington with?” Hamilton asked immediately, having felt left out of the moment’s tension and wanting back in on the narrative. “What’s the end game here?”

“Horatio Gates,” replied Prevost reluctantly. “He has assured the Draytons and his friends in the police department that there will be no repercussions following the incident with the Curtis boy, from our end at least.”

“Uhuh, yeah,” Hamilton nodded, as if this had been very much what he expected to hear. “I don’t suppose we can get that in writing?”

A muscle leapt in Prevost’s jaw as he gritted his teeth. “What do you think,” he snapped. “That I’m some kind of Brutus? Some dislocated bastard-orphan, without tribe or loyalty?”

“The way I see it sir,” Burr cut in before Hamilton could retaliate. “With or without your allegiance, we have the evidence we need. We can either publish it as it stands and you can run the risk of facing federal charges for bribery, false statement and obstruction of justice. Or, you can take control. Confess your sins, write your own narrative. Help take down the people who need to be taken down. Public opinion will be much kinder. You might even be able to keep your job here.”

Burr stood back, waiting for his reaction. Prevost was quiet, the words sinking in. Hamilton’s hands were still in his pockets – he wondered how much of the conversation he had recorded. Even so, Prevost was not about to let himself be backed into a corner by a couple of nappy-haired adolescent shits.

“You’re bluffing,” he told Burr with more confidence than he felt. “You _need_ me. Without me, you’ve got fuck all. You’ll just have to make do with what you’ve got.”

Hamilton’s eyes narrowed, he opened his mouth as if to say something. It was Burr’s voice however that cut through the silence with a steely and serrated edge.

“I didn’t want to have to bring personal matters into this,” he said, low and dangerous. “But you’re leaving me no choice.”

He put his hands on the table and leaned in close to speak into Prevost’s ear. Out of the corner of his eye Prevost could see Hamilton was frowning, clearly wanting to know what was being said. Burr’s whisper was so quiet Prevost had to draw closer to hear him.

“She’s willing to testify,” Burr told him, deathly quiet. “Everything you’ve done to her, every tiny little detail over the years. I have her testimony signed. She’ll spare nothing, she’ll say it before a court of law if she has to. Now, I can go to the police with it. Or you can give her the divorce, and what we want, and you’ll never hear from either of us again.”

He straightened up. Took a step back, the better to see Prevost’s face. White and sweating, a faint, sickly green glow around the dampened edges. He cocked his head. “Do we have a deal?”

Behind him, Hamilton was still frowning. Prevost’s tongue felt thick in his mouth. Swollen and dry, rough like a new sponge. Burr’s gaze was trained on him, fixed and immutable. It was impossible to meet.

The world was closing in around him. Prevost shook his head, as if by doing so he could stop the walls spinning.

“Get out,” he forced with as much effort as he could summon. “I’ll give you what you want, just. Get the fuck out of my office.”

Burr made for the door. Hamilton however, hesitated, expression dubious. “You’ll write a statement?” he sought to clarify.

“You can put the pen in my hand,” Prevost snarled. “I’ll sign what you want. Just get the fuck out. If I ever see your faces round here again, I swear to God I’ll smash them into the dirt.”

Hamilton nodded, satisfied. “Fair play,” he accepted. “Be in touch.”

They left the office quickly, closing the door quietly behind them.

Once out of earshot, Hamilton turned to Burr. “Good thing you had whatever that was up your sleeve,” he remarked. “He looked like you’d given him the shits. What the hell did you say to him?”

“That’s for me to know, and you to never mention again,” Burr retorted primly.

Hamilton shook his had dejectedly. “Ah, Aaron,” he sighed mournfully. “Every time I think you’re close to becoming cool.”

Burr cracked a thin smile despite himself. Hamilton grinned back, extending his hand. “Good work, Mr Seale.”

“Likewise, Mr Newton.”

They shook hands.

“Get a drink?”

“Sure.”

*

“The recipe says three eggs,” Angelica frowned dubiously at her phone screen.

“Recipes are for nerds,” Laurens replied shortly, cracking an extra two into the bowl.

 “When did you get into cooking, anyway?” Angelica asked him. “I have to tell you, it sits really at odds with your image.”

“What image?” asked Laurens, pouring in sugar.

“You know,” Angelica made a vague gesture that somehow managed to encompass Laurens’ oversized sweater-vest, Jägermeister wristband and the fact that he was wearing crocs. “This…whatever this is. Depression chic.”

“I don’t know if you’re allowed to make jokes like that.”

“I don’t know if you’re allowed to wear Rick and Morty socks with crocs, yet here we are.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be here to make me feel better?” Laurens raised an eyebrow.

“Well, yeah,” Angelica shrugged, resuming her grating of the lemon. “But I’m already doing a nice thing helping out for this bake sale. My stock of good deeds is running low. Steadily returning to my default state of bitch.”

Laurens breathed a laugh. “You’re not a bitch.”

“I’m a girl, I can say it,” Angelica returned. “Bitch fits with my image. ‘Dick’ fits Peggy’s. Eliza’s the only deviation from the theme. It’s like when God was handing out qualities, She gave her all the rose petals and us all the thorns.”

Laurens laughed for real this time. “Careful,” he warned. “She’s got you talking about God, helping out at fundraisers. Looks like she’s starting to have an influence.”

Angelica snorted, glancing disdainfully into the mixing bowl. _“Not_ likely,” she stated firmly. “I still think it’s a load of garbage. But it’s her interest, so,” she used a knife to scrape the lemon zest off the grater. “She’s always engaged in the things I like. Turned up to my debates, came with me to group meetings when I was nervous about going alone, even if she had no idea what anyone was talking about. Same way we had to get up every Sunday to watch Peggy play soccer. It’s gotta be done.”

“You guys are really supportive of each other,” Laurens observed. “It’s nice.”

Angelica shrugged. “It’s just being a sibling,” she looked at Laurens, unsure for a second. “You have those, right?”

Laurens ducked his head in confirmation. “We’re not as close as you guys, though,” he replied. “I went to boarding school, so I never saw that much of them. Then whenever I was back, I was always a massive asshole to make my presence known. Me and my sister used to go out of our way to piss each other off. I’d probably be friends with her now that we actually get on, but I’m over here and we don’t talk that much.”

Angelica frowned her disapproval. “That’s not good,” she chided him. “You should call her.”

This was not news to Laurens. “Ya,” he sighed. “I don’t know why I don’t. She’s actually super cool.”

“Does she know about Alex?” Angelica snuck a cautious look at him.

A muscle twitched in Laurens’ jaw. “No.”

His tone of voice was enough that Angelica sensed it was a forbidden topic, and knew to drop it.

“Me and Eliza fell out once,” she told him instead. “Really bad.”

“What over?” Laurens asked interestedly.

“She thought there was something going on with me and Hamilton,” Angelica rolled her eyes.

_“What?”_

“I _know!”_ Angelica pulled a face to mask that there was more reason to the accusation than she’d have people believe. “It was near the end of their relationship. She was not at her one-hundred-percent chirpiest.”

Laurens was quiet for a while, beating the mix with slightly more vigour than necessary. Angelica, sensing she had said managed to say something possibly equally provoking, decided it was best to shut up. It was not often that she talked with Laurens outside of a group environment. He confused her. You never knew when he was going to decide to take something personally or not. Sometimes someone would say something, and he would laugh. At others he would curl in on himself like a hedgehog, spines extended.  

“I guess he already spoke to her about everything,” he said, a hint of jealousy in his voice.

“Yep,” Angelica affirmed blithely.

“Bet she took his side.”

“Actually, she told me to go over to yours and enlist your help making a lemon drizzle for her Church fundraiser,” Angelica replied.

Laurens looked at her quizzically. “Why would she do that?”

“Because she wanted you to feel like we’re your friends too, and she knows you get weird around her.”

Laurens stared at Angelica, horrified and embarrassed even as his face worked resentfully. “I…what?” he blustered. “That’s not true, I do not get _weird_ around her-”

“Laurens, it’s cool,” Angelica raised her palms soothingly. “I would not feel so fabulously about my boyfriend being best friends with his ex either.”

Laurens huffed in frustration, more in response to his own lack of subtlety than to any truth in the statement. Angelica thought he was about to lapse back into thorny reticence and was opening up Twitter on her phone when he spoke again. “It’s just…why does she have to be so _good_ all the time? Can’t she ever turn it off?”

Surprised by the heat of his words, Angelica frowned. “It doesn’t come naturally, you know,” she rebuked. “She works at it. She has a lot of her own stuff too, it’s not always easy putting other people first.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Laurens said impatiently. “She still always manages to make me feel like a shitty person.”

“Maybe that’s something more to do with you than her,” Angelica snapped.

“I’m sure it is,” Laurens responded darkly.

Guiltily feeling rather like she had failed in her mission, Angelica struggled to make amends. “Look, Laurens,” she tried. “You’re…you’re very nice.”

Laurens pulled a sceptical face. “Don’t call me that,” he said bluntly. “That’s not true, I’m not nice.”

“Jesus, okay, fine,” Angelica rolled her eyes. “You’re an asshole Mr Edgelord, happy?”

“I just meant,” Laurens sighed, setting down the whisk. “I wasted a lot of time quieting myself trying to be nice. At school especially. Trying to fit in, not offend anyone. It’s why I was such a dick at home. Everybody knew me as good old Laurens. He’s so nice ya know, he’s such a sound guy. I didn’t even have a self to be sickened by. I had like, no personality. The cool thing about hanging out with you guys is that it taught me you don’t always have to be nice. Like, you don’t owe it to anybody to be palatable. When I first met Mulligan and Lafayette and Hamilton, I liked that they saw past the ‘nice’ness. Like they immediately knew it was a front, and they wanted to be friends with me anyway.”

“…Yet, being around Eliza makes you feel like a shitty person?”

“I know it’s not logical,” it was Laurens’ turn to roll his eyes. “Maybe it’s not that. Maybe it’s that being around Eliza reminds me of how fake my niceness _was_. Like, hers comes from a place of genuine kindness. And mine came from a place of fear.”

He took up the whisk again, turning to stare perplexedly at Angelica. “That got really deep really quick.”

Angelica laughed, relieved at the break in tension and that he had said so. “Don’t worry about it,” she dismissed. “This is what happens when you talk to girls.”

Laurens smiled crookedly. “Probably why I’m such a ‘boy’s boy’.”

“Oh God,” Angelica dropped her head back. “I’m sorry I called you that. It was low-key dickish of me.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Laurens shrugged dismissively. “Probably just my fear of internalised private-school-bro culture getting offended.”

“Could be worse,” Angelica pointed out. “You could be like Alexander, and worry constantly that you’re a secret misogynist.”

Laurens laughed out loud. “He’s so cute.”

“He tries so hard,” Angelica nodded in agreement.

Laurens tilted the bowl for Angelica to see. “Would you say I’ve beaten this enough to produce a smooth and creamy texture? Or should I switch to longer strokes, to make it properly moist?”

“I would say, please never do the commentary on a cooking show.”

Laurens poured the mixture into a tin and put it in the oven. When he straightened up, he looked a little ashamed.

“He’s still really angry with me, huh?” he muttered, cheeks glowing a little as he ran a hand through his hair.

Angelica looked sympathetic. “He’ll get over it,” she assured him. “It’s more a matter of principle than anything else at this point.”

“I’d say sorry if it’d do any good. But I’m not, really.”

Angelica bobbed her head, not wanting to validate Laurens’ actions but unable to condemn them outright.

Laurens’ phone buzzed from the counter. He reached for it, a deep crease appearing between his brows as he read the message.

“Everything alright?” asked Angelica concernedly.

“Ya,” Laurens shook his head counter-logically, as if trying to clear it. “My dad’s in the city in a couple days. He wants to go for dinner.”

“That’s nice?” said Angelica hopefully.

Laurens said nothing, setting the phone back onto the surface before turning to wash up.

*

_AH: Hey André. How u doing?_

_JA: Hey! I’m good, how are you?_

_Are you speaking to me again?_

_AH: apparently. Not my first preference, but needs must_

_JA: I rly am sorry about everything_

_AH: yeah ok. Dw about that now i have a way you can redeem urself_

_JA: ?_

_AH: Gotta job pour tois_

_JA: !Exciting! Can I ask what_

_AH: need u to run an article for me. Pretty big scale_

_JA: How big we talking_

_AH: National_

_JA: …Ok_

_You do know I write for a school newspaper, right?_

_AH: yeah_

_JA: Ok. I was just checking that you knew that_

_AH: it’s a p huge story. Once its out there, one of the big boys will pick it up._

_JA: Can’t you hit up the paper who printed the story about Laurens last time?_

_AH: I would, but this cant come from me. for Papa Laurens reasons. Plus it needs to look anonymous to be effective._

_JA: Gotcha. Alright I’m game_

_AH: Cool. I’ll send you the deets over email._

_thanks for doing this_

_JA: No worries._

_AH: Hey also_

_sorry if this is personal, let me know if im overstepping a boundary. But I feel like ur rly not doing urself any favours in the romance department_

_You should talk to Ben_

_JA: ?_

_Talk to Ben about what_

_AH: idk. just stuff in general._

_I know he might seem standoffish but it would probably help u out a lot. i think you might find you’ve had some similar experiences_

_JA: …_

_…_

_…_

_AH: U dont have to reply. just a suggestion_

_Anyway i gotta go. thanks again for doing this! Send u the stuff in a bit! x_

_JA: Np_

_…_

_x_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the term is NOT half-caste


	28. Low Burn - Underworld

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw homophobic slur

The school newspaper article carrying a statement from Jacques Prevost confirming what everyone already knew – that a small circle of trustees had accepted money from the Drayton family to keep on their son – was picked up by the national papers. Within days the board was purged, and several of the most influential names, Lee and Conway amongst them, found themselves out of a job and facing charges of varying severity.

By setting the pen to his own narrative, Prevost had successfully managed to avoid prosecution. He celebrated his freedom by going to court anyway, to sign his wife’s divorce papers. Theodosia held the page steady for him.

When asked to comment on the situation, President Washington lamented that it was a sad business but the university were glad to be rid of such corrupt and self-serving individuals, and that they certainly would be doing their best from now on to ensure transparency and accountability in all administerial matters. Starting with the creation of a new judicial department, independent and partly student operated, which would henceforth be receiving a great deal of funding and personal attention. For the time being, the student body would be chiefly represented by Lafayette.

Andy Drayton pulled out for the remainder of the year. Apparently, he was starting to feel unwelcome on campus.

Henry Laurens read the news on the flight over to New York, and it was still fresh by the time he was sitting across from his son in his favourite Italian restaurant. The truth of it had not shocked him quite as much as it had some of his acquaintances. He was surprised, however, that it had come to the surface – exposed in such an incontestable manner, and with such swift results. He had his theories too about how it had been managed, and these he voiced to John over dinner.

“It is a shame Horatio Gates had to be involved in this,” he mused, placing an olive carefully into his mouth. “He has done some good work in the past. I know a lot of people who respect him very much.”

“The others only supported him over Washington,” Laurens pointed out. “There was nothing about him taking money from anyone. I didn’t think he came out of it too badly.”

Henry tilted his head. “For now,” he conceded. “But I have a sneaking suspicion that whoever managed to uncover this is holding something back. Possibly for the Curtis trial.”

Laurens’ heart quickened in his chest. He took a long sip of water before replying casually. “What makes you say that?”

“Alexander seems to have a knack for timing,” Henry replied. “And a flair for the dramatic.” He made a slight calming motion with his hand, silencing Laurens who had started to reply. “No need to rise in defence. On the contrary, I’m glad my tip could be of use. And this time it seems he’s even managed to keep his name out of the papers. Not to mention yours.”

Laurens’ shoulders sank as he retreated, like a wounded animal, behind the bread basket.

“He has been a very loyal friend to Washington,” Henry continued. “I hope George recognises what an advocate he has there.”

“I should think he does,” Laurens mumbled, remembering with shame Hamilton’s relating their argument, and the one that had swiftly followed.

“No doubt he will be rewarded accordingly,” Henry voiced. “I certainly would remember a favour like that. I daresay Hamilton would do too, should the time come that he needs one.”

Laurens said nothing. Henry took a sip of wine, smiling at Laurens as he set his glass back on the table.

“Anyway,” he said. “Enough politics. Tell me what’s new with you. I was glad to hear that your gig went well.”

“Oh, ya,” said Laurens uneasily, feeling another stab of shame at the thought of Hamilton’s bruised and bloodied face. “I actually got offers from quite a few people looking to sign me. My friend Beth, she’s started up kind of like an agency thing and I’m working with her and her contacts.... I met a few people who might be looking to get in touch after graduation.”

Henry listened to this with an impassive face. “I see,” he said finally. He paused. “And you think it’s a good idea to keep this up, after school?”

Laurens deflated instantly. He looked down at his hands, playing with his napkin on the table. “I’d like to,” he confessed quietly. “It would be…I’d like to see where it goes.”

 Henry didn’t answer for a long time. Laurens took another drink of water in the hope it would free his throat, which was starting to feel tight. At last, Henry spoke.

“Jack,” he said, voice equally quiet yet firm. “I thought we’d talked about this. You know that I support your hobbies, so long as they don’t become a priority, or distract you from your wider pursuits.”

“What wider pursuits,” Laurens wanted to mutter, but caught himself.

“I’ve found a position for you in James Duane’s firm,” Henry continued. “He has very kindly agreed to take you on as an assistant. I know that politically you don’t see eye to eye, but you might learn something from his side. He has done a lot for people of colour. Besides, it means you get to stay in New York, which I know you were anxious about.”

For a second, Laurens felt robbed of speech. His mouth worked in vain, throat so constricted he had to push the words out. “I…” he tried. “You _didn’t_ have to-”

“Of course I did,” Henry shot back sharply. “You’re my _son._ You think I’m going to have you running around the city at a loose end, without anything lined up after graduation? Particularly when you haven’t exactly been proactive in looking at steps towards your career.”

The napkin fell from Laurens’ hands. He slunk them off the table, lowering his gaze to his lap. Henry sighed, annoyed by the movement and at himself for being the instigator.

“I didn’t come here to berate you,” he told him gently. “I know you’ve had a lot going on. I just wanted to make sure you were taken care of, provided for. You know I only have your best interests at heart.”

“Thank you, sir,” Laurens parroted quietly. “I really am grateful. Thanks, sir.”

Henry flicked his finger dismissively. A long silence stretched awkwardly between them, before it was relieved by the arrival of the waiter.

“Ah, here we are,” Henry said contentedly, as the waiter set a plate of beef cutlets before Laurens. _“Braciola._ I remember how much you enjoyed it when we vacationed in Tuscany all those years ago, you must have been twelve.”

Laurens stared down at his plate, feeling the lump rise back into his throat. Catching his expression, Henry frowned.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded concernedly. “Is it overdone? Shall I send it back?”

“No, no,” Laurens said hastily, forcing a smile while internally berating himself for not telling his father he was trying out vegetarianism. “This is fine. Thank you.”

“Are you sure? We can send it back, it’s no trouble. Waiter-”

“No, really, it’s fine,” Laurens insisted, stretching out a hand to stop him. “Really, this looks great.”

He sawed a piece off the cutlet and chewed it vigorously as proof. Apparently convinced, Henry stopped pushing.

“What are your friends’ plans for after college?” he asked, cutting into his veal.

Laurens swallowed hard around the beef before replying. “Most people are planning to stay in the city,” he said. “Alex is staying. Lafayette might go back to France. He hasn’t decided.”

“I meant to add, I have a few contacts to pass onto Alexander if he wants them.”

Laurens nodded. “He’ll appreciate that.”

“I hear he’s interning with Schuyler again over the summer. Handy to be on such good terms with his daughters,” Henry went on. “And he’s seeing the second eldest? Elizabeth?”

“No, they broke up,” Laurens corrected him, a little too quickly. “Nearly two years ago. Long time.”

“Of course, you’re friends with them too.”

“Yeah,” Laurens confirmed uncomfortably. “Better with Angelica, though.”

“Is that so?” Henry lifted an eyebrow, glancing up from his veal. There was a slight pause before he tossed out casually, “Pretty girl.”

“Mm, ya,” murmured Laurens, who was wondering whether it was too soon to pretend to revisit the bathroom.

“Would be a nice match. You two together.”

“Hm?” asked Laurens, yanking himself back to the present and just catching onto what he was saying. “What? Oh, no!”

“No?” asked Henry innocently, a little surprised at his vehemence.

“I mean,” Laurens cursed himself. “She’s great. But we’re friends. She’s not my type.”

Henry nodded. “And is there…anyone else? Maybe on the horizon?”

“No,” Laurens could feel the heat in his cheeks rising. “Well, there’s a girl in my class. She’s nice.”

“Oh really? What’s her name?”

“Adrienne,” Laurens said the first name that came into his head.

“The same as Lafayette’s girlfriend,” Henry observed.

“Aha ya,” Laurens choked. “Maybe she’s related.”

Henry stared at him. “What?”

“What? Sorry,” Laurens’ face was a burning saucepan. “Long day. I’m a little scattered.”

Henry gave him an odd look but let it slide.

“What about your other friends?” he changed the subject. “Pickering, and so on? How is Charles taking the news about his father?”

“Uh, I don’t know,” Laurens confessed, heart beating a little faster at the thought of the incident in the bowling alley. “He and I don’t get on.”

“I thought you were friends?”

“We fell out,” Laurens explained, hoping desperately he wouldn’t press him for details. “To tell you the truth, I don’t really see much of that group anymore. They don’t get on well with Alexander.”

Henry didn’t say anything. Looking to cool himself down, and also to keep himself from talking, Laurens took a long gulp of water. When the silence had stretched long enough to ring in his ears, he cast about for something else to say.

“Alexander’s thinking about going into consultancy,” he said. “Maybe even start his own firm. He’s gonna do some market research over summer. He wants to see if maybe there’s a gap for businesses trying to appeal to millennials.”

“I see,” said Henry.

The response fell flat. The silence stretched on. Laurens stabbed a piece of cutlet, chewed and chewed. He spoke again.

“Alexander’s actually already started a business, kind of,” the words tumbled out of his mouth beyond his control. “With our friend, Aaron. It’s to do with buying student art and selling it to overseas collectors.”

“That,” Henry said slowly, frowning intensely. “Does not sound ethical.”

“No. Well,” Laurens shrugged, aware that he was rambling but unable to stop. “I don’t know. I don’t really know that much about it. He was talking to my friend André’s dad about it…his parents live in London…and he sounded really interested, and André’s mom’s a lawyer so I guess she would know. Well, commercial consultant. Actually, Alexander was talking to her as well, and she said-”

“Jack,” Henry cut him off.

Relieved, Laurens wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Ya?”

Henry reached for his wine glass, instead of taking a drink merely adjusting its placement on the table. “I have to ask you a question,” he said after a time. “And I need you to be honest with me.”

Laurens’ blood froze. _He knows about the fight Lee’s told him he’s gone to the police they’re pressing charges oh God I’m going to be arrested again oh God, God-_

“Are you bent?”

Laurens started. He stared at his father. “What?”

Henry repeated the question. Slowly, deliberately. The sound of the restaurant around them was drowned out by it. Laurens heard nothing but waves crashing against his ear drums.

“If you are,” Henry continued when the seconds had passed, and Laurens had done nothing but stare. “I need you to tell me. It’s important that you do, so that I can help you.”

Laurens swallowed. Henry’s expression was calm. He reached for his napkin, wiping at the corner of his mouth before pressing on.

“I hear you talk about your friends,” he continued. “The amount of love you have for them – it’s a beautiful thing, really. Noble, even. And I know that since high school you’ve had a…tendency…to pick out certain friends, with whom you form very close attachments. I had thought maybe Lafayette…But then I saw the way you looked at Alexander at that dinner, similar to how you looked at that Kinloch boy…and all that _awful_ business…”

He looked pained as he said the word. Laurens had wrenched his gaze away and was now staring at his swiftly cooling beef, the thick sauce curdling and congealed around the ruby red meat.

“God knows,” Henry was still talking, although Laurens heard him as if through static. “God knows, I understand temptation. I’m not here to preach at you. I know better than most what a scandal can do to a career. After all, with your mother…mine never _truly_ recovered. You do not want something like that dogging you for the rest of your life. The shame of it, it’s something that never leaves you.”

He shook his head infinitesimally, closing his eyes as if the memory exacerbated the ache already pulling at his features.

“But,” he said, pulling himself back. “If you…are…then we can work something out. I know a very good psychologist. He’s had a lot of favourable results. If you like, I can book you an appointment while I’m here-”

“No,” fell out of Laurens’ mouth automatically. “No. I’m not. I’m not bent.”

Henry looked levelly at his son. Laurens held the gaze, aware of his eyeballs pricking, although this could have been due to the fact that he hadn’t blinked in some time. As he held the gaze, he wondered if the mark of deceit wasn’t already written on his face. Whether there wasn’t something coded into him – his voice, his tone, his mannerisms – something as sure and indisputable as the colour of his skin that would betray him instantly, and biologically, counterfeit.

“Alright,” said Henry after an age had passed. “I just thought I’d ask.”

“Why?” asked Laurens before he could stop himself, voice rising a little hysterically.

“Because I care about you,” Henry replied simply.

Laurens speared a piece of meat with his fork and shovelled it into his mouth. Chewed savagely around the cold, fatty cut, tasting blood as it slithered and lodged in his throat. Henry watched him, grey eyes softening as they rested on his son.

“You know you can tell me anything,” he said gently. “Anything at all. Any problems you have. We can fix it.”

Laurens didn’t say anything but kept chewing. Henry returned to his veal, slicing it as neatly as skimming the curd off cream.

“I only have your best interests at heart,” he said.

*

Drayton gone, the board-members fired, Washington saved. Hamilton had woken the morning of the headline to a grim feeling of victory and a thank-you basket of mini-muffins delivered to his dorm. The card scrawled from Washington, expressing his gratitude and asking him would he please consider coming back to work, conveyed almost as much embarrassment as Hamilton felt upon receiving them. Hamilton texted back a reply that he’d see him Monday before shoving the basket into a corner and throwing a towel over the top.

The field was conceded. For now, Hamilton could put down the sword and devote his time to studying with the obsessive neuroticism he had been suppressing all semester. In his head he had made up with André and Lafayette, yet his study fever left him little opportunity to make it official. Laurens he still wasn’t talking to. Time and the satisfaction of a win had blunted the sharper edges of his anger, even so. There was his pride to consider.

His resolution was challenged one day when he realised he had left a textbook at Laurens’ apartment. Annoyed but not wanting to compromise his position, he called Tallmadge.

“Wagwan,” he said. “I left something important at yours. Can I come over now and get it?”

“Yeah sure,” came the indifferent reply.

“John in?”

“Laurens?” Tallmadge sought to confirm which Hamilton thought was weird, you know, considering. “Uh, no. He’s out for dinner with his dad.”

“Oh,” said Hamilton, surprised and a little hurt that Laurens hadn’t told him about it despite the fact that they still weren’t speaking. “Okay. Well. Good. I’ll be there in a sec.”

Tallmadge hung up. Hamilton ran a hand through his hair, cringing when he realised it needed a wash. The downsides of not seeing Laurens meant that he had no one to remind him to take care of himself. There were other downsides too. Hamilton pushed them from his mind and went to get his bike.

Fifteen minutes later, he was locking it outside Laurens’ apartment.

“Hey,” he greeted Ben, striding past him through the door. “Sorry to bother you, gimme a sec and I’ll be right out your…oh!”

He stopped, caught off guard upon seeing André sitting on the couch, nursing a cup of tea in his hands.

“Hello,” said Hamilton. “Sorry. I’m not disrupting creative flow, am I?”

“You’re disrupting,” Tallmadge told him bluntly, closing the door behind him.

“Hi Alex,” André offered a smile that looked faintly sheepish.

“Hi André,” Hamilton parroted. “Sorry for disrupting.”

“It’s okay.”

There was an awkward silence where André tried not to notice Tallmadge glaring and Hamilton tried not to look too pleased with himself.

Finally, unable to contain himself, Hamilton broke it. “So, you took my advice, huh?”

“Get out,” Tallmadge pointed at the door. “Go on. Get your book and scat.”

“Leaving, leaving,” Hamilton hurried to Laurens’ room before Ben could look any more fierce and André more embarrassed.

Laurens’ bedroom was a weird place to be when he and the occupant weren’t currently on speaking terms. For a moment Hamilton stood in the doorway, huffing out a breath as his eyes roved over the familiar yet unwelcoming space. The sight of Laurens’ posters, his art stuff, his books, his synthesizer filled him with a painful pang of longing and desire that only intensified as he took in the smell of him.

There was a t-shirt lying on his bed. Hamilton’s fingers trailed on Laurens’ bedpost as he entered, his gaze landing on it. He almost picked it up but restrained himself. Instead he steeled his resolve, marching over to Laurens’ desk and beginning to sift through his things.

“Would it kill you to employ _some_ method of organisation?” he muttered under his breath. “I know you think you’re hot stuff just because you can _see_ the wood of _your_ desk. But it’s worth jack shit, Laurens, if there’s no order to your system. Look, what the fuck is this, you’ve got Hobbes sitting next to Ralph Nader, _that_ doesn’t make any sense. And what is Machiavelli doing next to Jean-Jacques when he should be chilling out here with Sun Tzu. Huh. And what’s this.”

A notebook had fallen off the desk and landed on the floor. Hamilton picked it up, open on a line drawing of Angelica. She looked like she was baking.

“Huh,” said Hamilton, frowning at the drawing. “That’s new. If it wasn’t such a good likeness, I’d say it stretched the realms of artistic plausibility.”

He turned the page unthinkingly, not stopping to wonder whether he himself was stretching the realms of personal privacy. There were more drawings, some sketches, a few doodles. Hamilton felt the pain in his chest grow tighter as he flicked through, stopping when he found what looked like the outlines of a poem. “The Firebrand” was scribbled and underlined at the top of the page. Curious, Hamilton began to read.

_You are like a fire spirit_

Hamilton dropped the notebook as if it scalded him.

He lifted up his palms, appealing to an invisible judge. “No, no,” he told the empty room. “I can’t read that. That’s not for me.”

Hamilton resettled the notebook where he had found it, picked up his textbook, and sat down on the bed.

He pinched the material of the duvet between his fingers, thinking about the slide of it against his skin. His gaze drifted back towards the desk.

“Stop it,” he scolded himself out loud. “It’s not for you.”

The room didn’t reply. Something squirmed in his stomach, curiosity mixed with trepidation. He lifted his gaze towards the ceiling as if it might offer him counsel.

“What if it’s about me,” he told the ceiling.

The ceiling said nothing.

“It’s about me though,” Hamilton countered.

Still nothing.

“Well, fuck you then,” Hamilton got to his feet and marched back to the desk. “It’s about me.”

He picked up the notebook, flipping impatiently through the pages until he found the poem.

He read it.

He closed the notebook, and placed it carefully back on the desk.

He folded his arms around himself. “Well,” he said out loud. “That’ll teach you to look through people’s private things, won’t it? Are you happy now that you’ve got what you were after? Do you feel sufficiently embarrassed, or would you like to hunt around a bit more and see if you can find a dream journal?”

He stared glumly at the notebook, shame and mortification creeping into face until his cheeks were glowing with it.

“One thing’s for sure,” Hamilton told himself. “He certainly likes you. And you certainly are a piece of shit.”

He rubbed his face, feeling it was burning. As though he really were some kind of wild, unstoppable torch.

“Agh,” Hamilton rubbed his face with his hands and breathed, still cringing. _“Agghh.”_

 “Alex?” Tallmadge’s voice, raised and sceptical at the door.

Hamilton jumped at the sound. He looked up, blinking at Ben. “Yeah?”

“I was just checking you weren’t doing anything weird,” Tallmadge explained.

Hamilton looked at him quizzically, disliking his tone. “What do you mean ‘weird’?”

Tallmadge shrugged. “You know,” his eyes drifted meaningfully to Laurens’ bed. “…You know...”

Hamilton stared at him. “What the fuck,” he exclaimed heatedly. _“No.”_

“I was just checking,” Tallmadge protested. “You’ve been in here a long time.”

Hamilton snatched up his textbook and marched out the room. “You’re gross,” he threw at him.

 _“You’re_ gross,” muttered Ben.

Hamilton crossed the living room swiftly, making a straight beeline for the door. “Well, thank you very much for letting me in,” he said. “I certainly will be leaving now.”

“Oh really?” André’s asked, taken aback by his urgency. “You don’t wanna hang out? We’re about done with our, er, conversation.”

“No, no,” Hamilton lifted a hand in farewell, having reached the door. “I really gotta head. Revision, and all. I’ll catch you around, André. Later, Ben.”

“Bye,” said Tallmadge curtly, shutting the door behind him.

Hamilton unlocked his bike and kicked off, cycling back as fast as the traffic would allow. His heart was thumping all the way, brain whirring so out of control with thoughts that he was honked at several times by cars, only narrowly avoiding getting hit by one. When he arrived back at his building he raced up the stairs, and entering his dorm collapsed immediately into his desk chair.

For a good few minutes he just sat there, slumped against the seat and waiting for his pulse to calm down and his mind to stop racing. His thoughts were spinning out of control, tangling up with the scream of his emotions until he couldn’t tell logic from right. Finally, he reached for a piece of paper and slid it towards him.

He picked up a pen.

An hour later, his phone rang.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the slow update, i have finals!!
> 
> nb. i don't know if "bent" is a slur used outside of the UK, but i'm leaving it in for personal reasons and u will just have to stretch your realms of artistic plausibility - which are no doubt boundless anyway, since you've kept up with this thus far

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think of the story and the songs, comments give me fuzzies! <3
> 
> find the playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/qj62k1u4tw0sye0cjpxy9l30i/playlist/07ktKJb6tBw0EQDghn5mVx?si=E57QR7nhTKWXBax86R2HAQ) and find me on [tumblr](http://scarlett-the-seachild.tumblr.com/)


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